


Burnt Sand

by maikurosaki



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2019, Deaf Clint Barton, Firefighter Steve Rogers, M/M, Mild Smut, Mutual Pining, Smoking, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, mentions of trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-20 11:22:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 30,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18991654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maikurosaki/pseuds/maikurosaki
Summary: Steve Rogers thinks he's completely fine: he's a great firefighter, he has awesome friends, and his occasional interactions with Bucky Barnes always put a smile on his face. But, in between a rescue mission at work that leaves him shaken and a blast from the past that leaves him reeling, Steve comes to the realization that he needs to be brave and go after what he wants. The problem is he's not sure he can follow this through.Or: Steve Rogers is a firefighter with commitment issues. Bucky Barnes is an army veteran turned bartender with a different set of issues. Somehow, they make it work.





	1. Steve: Ashes and Embers

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [[caprbb2019 audio prompt] Burnt Sand](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19039804) by [thatsmysecret](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsmysecret/pseuds/thatsmysecret). 



> A collaboration for Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2019 with thatsmysecret. She's been incredibly kind and gracious.  
> ***  
> This fic was beta read by the amazing  
> fancyh – I owe her a debt of gratitude for her kind comments and helpful input.  
> ***  
> Thank you @mods from CapRBB for the hard work in organizing this wonderful challenge.

 

“Bucky! Do you have a light?” The man’s voice dripped with the happy enthusiasm of a drunk man and Steve Rogers looked up as well as a few other men outside _Sl_ _á_ _inte_ as if they too were responding to the unusual name. He watched in silence as a tall guy with a bowler hat and a mustache that was more befitting of a man in a Bogart movie clapped Bucky Barnes on his back. A regular bartender at _Sl_ _á_ _inte,_ Bucky winced and gently pushed back the other man with a roll of his eyes. Then he produced the miraculous lighter and his friend lit up the cigarette in a few seconds, greedily sucking in the smoke.

Bucky mumbled something, smiling wryly, and his friend guffawed, drawing the attention of a few other patrons outside. The artist in Steve appreciated their unusual matching. The tipsy man was almost twice Bucky’s size, massive shoulders clad in a blue shirt, the suspenders only adding even more to his vintage look. He looked like a man out of time next to Bucky with his red Henley and dark jeans, messy hair tied in a man-bun. Bucky had recently lost some of his bulk and carried himself like a person unused occupying less space, moving his weight from one leg to another with a hesitant sort of clumsiness.

Steve shook his head and smiled as he curiously watched their interaction, Bucky's shy twitches as his friend boisterously carried on telling a story that obviously demanded a slight suspension of disbelief. Briefly, Steve noted how Bucky pushed a stray strand of hair behind his ear – it looked soft and silky and Steve's hand ached with the need to touch. And that was definitely something that he shouldn't be thinking. So he returned his attention to his cell, the sound of music and laughter floating around him from inside the bar.

It was a chilly night for late April but Steve appreciated the crisp air around them, the orange glow of the street lamps, and the muffled sounds of traffic late at night. It smelled like rain and not even the dark could hide the low and menacing clouds. He checked his phone and sure enough, the weather app threatened him with cold showers and lightning.

He sighed but couldn't regret his decision of going out with his friends. He'd agreed to join his friends and fellow co-workers back to _Sl_ _á_ _inte,_ their usual hang out place, after having faced a grueling shift. After the terrible devastation that they had battled in the last twenty-four hours, Steve hadn't wanted to go home, to his small but empty apartment, where nothing and no one waited for him. He had almost heard the tick-tock of the clock in the kitchen, measuring the passing of time in the open space, the hum of modern appliances its only echo.

“You okay, Rogers?” Sam Wilson, his friend and fellow firefighter, pulled him out of his revelry with a warm hand on his shoulder and a brash smile. He smelled of beer and salty peanuts and his almond eyes glimmered dangerously.

“All good.” Steve’s lips twisted into what might have been an acceptable smile because Sam relaxed even more beside him, keeping his hand on Steve's shoulder like a warm anchor, and raised an eyebrow when he noticed that Steve was checking his phone.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” he said and smirked when Steve rolled his eyes.

“I don’t.”

“Then what the hell are you doing outside?!” Sam squeezed his shoulder amicably. “Come on, man, Barton is killing me at darts. I already lost ten dollars. I need to be avenged.”

“I don’t understand why you always get yourself in these kinds of messes.” Steve rolled his eyes fondly but put the phone back into his back pocket and rested his arm on Sam’s shoulders as well. They must have made a funny pair, but Steve ignored the few questing looks and pushed Sam towards the main entrance of the bar. “Come on, Falcon, let’s win you back your ten dollars!”

“I told you to stop calling me that!” Sam glared at Steve as they made their way in.

“You shouldn’t have shown me your baby pictures,” Steve sing-songed as he closed the door behind him. Through the dark glass, he caught a glimpse of Bucky finishing his smoke as well and heading back inside the bar, listening to his friend, who kept on gesticulating wildly and talking loudly. Steve shook his head ruefully and pressed on, following Sam into the sea of people.

For a late Thursday night, _Sl_ _á_ _inte_ sure as hell was full.

“I didn’t show you any baby pictures. My mama did, asshole, and you know it!” Sam shouted back, making Steve chuckle. Oh yeah, mama Wilson had been more than happy to share pictures of the lovely Sam when he was five and the serious way he looked into the camera as he posed for it, wearing his falcon costume. He had been equally adorable and hilarious.

“Your mama is a fine woman, Wilson! Don't you dare disrespect her.”

As they approached the back of the bar, Steve glanced at the wall full of memorabilia, his eyes gliding softly over a small picture showing Bucky Barnes in his uniform, laughing at something with some of his fellow Marines. For some reason, it always caught Steve’s attention – maybe because Barnes wasn’t smiling much these days and when he did, the sad edge to it somehow broke Steve’s heart.

 _Sl_ _á_ _inte_ was one of those peculiar places that could still be found here and there in Brooklyn, a family sort of business, for at least five generations, that had kept most of its original design and appeal – utterly Irish, wooden tops, awesome beer, and terrible music. There was also the memorabilia wall, an assortment of photographs, newspaper articles, and valor medals, kept safe by their glass cases. Most of the pictures were keeping alive the memory of those firefighters that had lost their lives in the service of their fellow men, or had done something heroic and had been mentioned in a newspaper article. Steve was in one of those articles too, which recounted how he had run back into a collapsing building and had saved two other people at the last minute. It had gained him the nickname Captain America, and to this day Sam didn't let him live that one down.

Other photos, including that of Bucky, were of military veterans, a silent kind of memorial of the many lives sacrificed across an entire bloody and violent century. And naturally, at the top of those pictures, there were those of the Barnes men. It had started with Grandpa Barnes, who had served in World War II and had been awarded two Purple Hearts, and ended with Bucky, who had only recently been honourably discharged after an IED had exploded next to his Humvee, taking the lives of some of his men and sending him in hospital for two months. George Barnes had been in a dark mood for weeks on end after learning about what happened to his son, especially since it took them a while to fly out to Germany. The entire family had hoped that Bucky's fourth tour would have been his last, that he would have had the possibility to retire. Although abstractedly, they'd been aware of Bucky's hardships and trauma to a certain extent, none of them had been prepared for the shocking reality of his combat wounding and its terrible consequences.

No one would have found out the truth either, had it not been for some of Bucky's former army buddies becoming regulars at _Sl_ _á_ _inte._ They loved to sing Bucky's praises and talk about their lives in the army – by the look of it, it was always with a terrible mix of longing for it and being glad they'd made it out alive. However, Bucky always listened to their stories with lips pressed in a thin line and hands incessantly fidgeting. He didn't like talking about his military past. He liked even less when people kept praising him for it.

Maybe it didn't help that George Barnes was a damn proud dad and he displayed his son’s acts of valor as if they were his own. Perhaps that was why no one said anything when, in the beginning especially, Bucky would stiffen at each loud noise and blanched as if mortally wounded. That was why it came as no surprise that he was always off on Saint Patrick’s Day and 4th of July. The level of deep understanding came from the fact that, at the end of the day, he was amongst his peers anyway – _Sl_ _á_ _inte_ had become a long time ago a sanctuary for firefighters, just about any sort of health professional involved in urgent medical care, army veterans, and an odd assortment of men and women with such stories that they were better left alone with their drinks and their empty eyes.

Steve had been a regular to _Sl_ _á_ _inte_ for years but he and Bucky had only exchanged a handful of polite conversations. Still, Bucky always knew what to serve Steve, whether it was a whiskey or a beer kind of day, just by looking at his face; while Steve could always tell when it’d been a bad day for Bucky and kept quiet at the bar, eating the salty peanuts and talking quietly to Sam or other patrons. And honestly, at times, their bad days would coincide and Bucky would know, would _always_ know – during those rough nights, they'd stay together in their little corner at the bar and drink mostly in silence. Then Bucky would ruffle Steve's hair and would send him home in a taxi, making sure that he'd press a bottle of water in his hand before he'd slam the door closed.

An odd sense of companionship made Steve pay Bucky attention. Made Steve aware of Bucky and his whereabouts, his moods and the uncanny way in which he managed to read Steve just as well.

“Oh, loser boy brought reinforcements!” Clint half-said, half-signed, and Sam immediately replied with a well-placed middle finger, whose universal meaning drew laughs and hoots from their loud group of friends.

“Another round?” Tamara, one of the waitresses working at _Sl_ _á_ _inte_ from immemorial times, yelled above the noise as she passed them by with a tray full of empty glasses. The conversations around them had gotten louder and the music didn't help the matters either.

“Might as well,” Wanda answered and slapped Clint over the head. “This guy is paying though.”

“Hey, what did I do?” Clint picked up the darts again and yelled after Tamara, “Tell Bucky to not get scrimpy on me.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet he’ll love to hear that.” Had she been closer, Tamara would have laughed in Barton’s face.

“Hey, that guy loves me and you know it!” Barton shouted just in case but by then, Tamara was back at the bar so Wanda just shoved him towards the darts again. Barton and Bucky had been friends for much longer, going to the same high school – apparently, sharing the awkward years of teenage drama was still the best way to bond for life, and those two had been like two peas within completely different pods. Because while Barton had always been like a ball of sunshine mess, Bucky had been like a gloomy Sunday afternoon. Somehow, they still got along, at times furiously signing at each other in a world of their own.

Steve checked the bar out but he couldn’t see Bucky from their vantage point. Steve shook his head and paid closer attention to his friends' banter, the kitchen clock and its phantom tick tock abated for now.

Much later, when the need to take another breather became overwhelming again, Steve didn't even use the excuse of his phone. He simply clapped Sam on his shoulder twice and his friend was well attuned to his mood, even through the haze of the alcohol. He nodded in return and covered for him by beginning a new boisterous story. By then, he sounded oddly similar to Bucky's friend.

Outside, the thunder rumbled far away, its sound rolling over the city like a playful ball. The quietness of the rain muffled the sounds of the city. The orange glow of the street lamps clipped at the reality around them. Steve blinked lazily at them then sucked in a deep breath. He could hear his friends and colleagues joining in a terrible song involving some unfortunate Irish gentleman. Hell, half of them were drunk off their asses, their song acrimonious in their dissonance. Steve pinched the bridge of his nose and took a few steps away from the main entrance of the bar, the ledge above wide enough to protect him from the worst of the rain. A few other patrons were scattered around but no one paid him any attention.

“Too much for you?” The quiet voice startled him. He looked over his shoulder to Bucky, his shoulders slightly hunched, the smoke of his half-finished cigarette almost dying. His blue eyes – like a terrible snowstorm sky in winter – watched Steve in return quietly.

“A bit, yes.” Bucky nodded in silent companionship and took another drag of his cigarette. Steve pressed a little closer to the wall they both now leaned on. Steve watched as another lightning bolt splintered the sky in the distance, a terrifying foe that usually sowed the worst sort of carnage. The thunder followed soon enough but not as strong as before.

“How about you?” Steve asked abruptly and turned his attention back to his silent companion. Bucky shrugged and took another drag.

“Smoke break.”

“You know it’s going to kill you.”

“Well, worst things have tried,” Bucky said, an imperceptible raise of his shoulders accompanying his words. A moment later he winced, perhaps realizing how terrible his words had sounded, especially when they were abjectly true. “I only smoke at work,” he amended and stubbed the cigarette butt. “I try to stick to only three per shift.”

“How's that working for you?”

“Most of the time, I manage.” Bucky shrugged then pushed a stray strand of hair behind his ear. He'd been doing this even when his hair was tied neatly at the back of his head, an endearing sort of gesture that Steve couldn't help but catalogue for later reference. “Sometimes though, I'll go through a whole pack.”

“I could tell you all about the dangers of smoking and what it does to your lungs and those of the people around you.” Steve smirked when Bucky huffed amused.

“But you won't.”

“But I won't.” Steve smiled softly and watched as another bolt of lightning colored the sky further and further away from them.

“Have you ever smoked?” Bucky asked quietly and Steve's gaze returned to him. It was cold enough for them both to go back inside the bar but for some reason, Steve wanted to keep leaning against the wall and have this inane conversation with Bucky.

“Nope. Mom had asthma – she would have killed me, had she known I'd willingly damage my lungs.”

“Becca always lectures me about it.” Bucky crossed his arms and turned towards Steve, resting his shoulder against the wall. “My little sister,” he added as an explanation. “She always shows me those terrible pictures with the damaged lungs and everything. Referred me to a smoking cessation program once, without me even knowing until I got the call.”

“Guess it didn't take.”

Bucky shrugged again. “It's something I picked up in the army, you know? Somehow giving it up completely feels more like I'm disrespecting a whole military tradition and less like it's a healthy thing to do.” The melancholy of the entire gesture might have seemed enthralling to some, but Steve knew better. It was hard enough to leave a lifetime of memories behind; it was worse when that didn't happen willingly. “I guess you've seen a lot of damage caused by smoking,” Bucky's words trailed away.

“More than I'd like to share.” Steve wiped at his face and scratched at his beard, feeling slightly dizzy. The alcohol was getting to him. The little energy he had left for this night out had finally drained away. “I'd lecture you on it too, but since you smoke only at work, I'll let you be.”

“Kind of you to say so.”

“Hope you fully appreciate this.”

“Does that go against your firefighter code or something?”

“Pal, you have no idea.” They smiled at each other then looked away.

It was clear at this point that neither of them felt like talking. They spent a few more minutes in a companionable sort of silence. They watched the rain and let the music and the voices inside wash over them until Tamara came to call Bucky back as everyone was preparing to order the last round.

“See you later, Buck,” Steve said softly and the other man ducked his head, hiding away his shy smile. It made him all the more endearing.

“See you later, Steve.”

Bucky closed the door behind him and watched Steve for a moment through the dark glass. Steve couldn't see him very well but he waved like a dork anyway. He sighed dejectedly at himself and leaned back against the wall, watching the soft rain. Honestly, this was clearly a sign he needed to go home and enjoy his days off.

***

Steve was laying in his bed in a pool of sunshine, his blue sheets an almost immaterial sea of comfort. Spread around him were sheets of paper with drawings from last night. In more than one, Bucky’s familiar profile was rendered in different variations. Steve had his legs crossed and his hands rested on his chest, eyes closed, quietly humming along with the music in the background. A half-eaten sandwich rested on the nightstand and his phone laid next to the plate.

One of the things that had convinced Steve into buying this apartment in the first place had been the way the sun shone that Saturday afternoon when the real estate agent had shown it to him. It was a two-bedroom apartment, with a good sized living room slash kitchen in the bohemian part of Park Slope. It was close to his firehouse and it would end up being his. The good thing about owning the apartment was that it had given him a sense of stability that he hadn't had since his mother had died. The bad thing about it was that it was haunted by the memories he had created within these walls, whether good or bad. There had been times when he could almost see Jack's hoodies spilling messily from the closet and the echo of their hot and messy kisses on the couch. He could still see the glass mark on the coffee table from that time when Sam spent a week on Steve's couch when he had been unable to save a woman involved in a car fire. He could almost smell the smoke of the burnt lasagne that Wanda had tried to cook to impress them all.

Most of the memories were wonderful, some of them were painful. All of them were his. The apartment contained a quiet history of an ordinary life. _His_ ordinary life.

And there was nothing wrong with it. Except. Recently, there had been a quiet sort of restlessness spreading between his ribs, wild like waterfalls and unpredictable. It made him crave something, though he was unaware as to what. He hummed along with the song and opened his eyes. He looked at his right hand smudged in charcoal, hard and calloused, although he was trying to keep his hands moisturized as much as possible. He kept thinking of Bucky and his eyes, his nervous gesture of always pushing his hair behind his ear. Of the way that red Henley embraced him in all the right places.

It's been a long time since Steve had wanted something or someone for himself. And he wasn't sure whether he was capable of wanting more from a person. Of wanting something at all. Since his break up with Jack, almost two years ago, there was nothing left inside of Steve and he shunned relationships with the sort of easiness that had scared him at the time. Yet he couldn't stop himself from living in a sort of bubble, dating rarely and unsuccessfully.

Steve Rogers wanted someone to look at him and see him. Someone who was accepting of his quirks and willing to face the hardships of his job together. He closed his eyes again and rested his hand on the other one, fingers tapping along the song that now changed. Bucky's fingers holding a cigarette materialized behind his eyelids and he pressed his own fingertips against his other hand as if it would make the image clearer. More real.

He kept humming along. Soon he'd have to get ready for work and these thoughts would scatter around like ashes.

For now, this was enough. Being quiet by himself was enough.

***

Steve was a block away from his favorite bookshop when his cell phone rang. He quickly switched his coffee into the other hand and answered after a few more rings.

“You know, Sam, the purpose of our days off is to be as far away from you as possible. Why do you insist on breaking our mutual understanding?”

“Shut up, Captain America!” Sam's voice sounded even more obnoxious than usual when he spewed that nickname. “You miss my face and my musk and you wouldn't know what to do with yourself if it weren't for me.”

Steve chuckled then took another sip of his coffee. “I will admit to some of your merits, _Falcon_ , if you tell me it's your turn to cook next shift.”

“Steve Rogers, ladies and gentlemen, and non-binary people,” Sam said, and the sarcasm was strong with his friend today, “proving once again that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach.”

“Is there a point to this conversation or did you just call me to prove me once again that I'm keeping the old man's image alive?”

“Well, it's always a pleasure to deal with old man Rogers, but no, I didn't call about that. What are you up?”

“I'm going to _The Book Nook_ , replenishing my stacks of books and all that.”

“You mean, buying half of that book shop, then complaining that you don't have anything to read?”

“You know me too well.”

“That I do, my friend. That I do.”

“What about you?”

“Helping mama with a new couch. I swear to God, if she tells me to move it one more time, she'll have to give me three casseroles instead of just one.” Sam's fond exasperation made Steve smile. He was well-aware of mama Wilson's perfectionism when it came to the objects in her house. “By the way, she made one for you too. Complained to me that you're too thin and someone needs to take care of you.”

“Of course she did because mama Wilson is awesome. Tell her I thank her but she should take care more of herself than us. We're grown up men.”

“You think I didn't try, man?” Sam chuckled at the other end of the line. “I got half an hour lecture on what she thinks about my maturity. And yours too, buddy, for that matter. And believe me, it wasn't complimentary at all.”

“That bad?” Steve winced then took another large gulp of his coffee trying to finish it at this point.

“Well, something about our age and lack of partners might have come into play as well.” Sam's voice turned a lot more gentle when he added, “She asked about Jack and about Ellie and I think she would have gone through the whole lists of both mine and your exes, had the delivery guy not deigned to show up just then. Saved by the bell and all that jazz.”

Steve winced at the mention of Jack, their breakup still fresh with accusations and hurt. And Sam's separation from Ellie hadn't been easy either. However, mama Wilson sometimes brought them into the conversation as if to prove that they had been capable of holding on to long-term relationships and been horrible at it at the same time.

“She just loves us and wants what's best for us,” Steve murmured and eyed a trashcan for his now empty cup.

“And that's why I rang you,” Sam crowed. “To remind myself of that, otherwise I would have gone insane.” They both chuckled. “Also, do you want to hang out tonight at Wanda's? She's trying a new recipe for potato salad.”

“You sure she doesn't just want to poison us and be done with it?” Steve winced at the thought of it. Wanda's food experiments weren't always successful. To put it nicely.

“Nah, man. I mean, I hope not.”

“Well, good luck with that, Sam. I think I'll keep it to myself this evening.”

“Suit yourself, old man Rogers.”

“You do realize you're actually one year older than me, right?”

“Lies and slander!” Steve heard mama Wilson say something in the background and a few seconds later, Sam sighed loud in the receiver. “I have to go. Also, you're expected to attend next week's lunch.”

“Of course I am.” Steve smiled. “Good luck, Sam, and I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Later, old man!”

Steve was still smiling as he entered the book shop and went to peruse the fiction shelves, trying to ignore the pang in his chest from hearing Jack's name. Jack and his architect dreams and his intentions of going back to grad school, intentions that never came to reality when his job as an office boy at a big shot lawyer's office turned out to be better paid than he'd ever thought. Steve had been involved in other long-term relationships before, but none of them had the potential that he and Jack had.

In the beginning, it looked like Jack would be able to accept Steve's twenty-four-hour shifts, working weekends and holidays, sometimes feeling like he was never there. And Steve had made the effort of trying to make things right in his days off when he'd ignored his tiredness and made an effort. But then, after Steve's heroics that earned him the nickname of Captain America, something had shifted in their relationship. Suddenly, there was a new level of commitment that Jack had demanded and Steve couldn't have offered. They both lack the emotional maturity to face the challenges of their relationship and it had shown. Maybe his job had been the first point of contrition in their relationship, but soon enough others followed, so much so that by the end of it, there were only recriminations and silence and the apartment echoed terribly once Jack had finally decided to move out.

“You know, usually, people read books, not stare at them into oblivion.” Bucky's voice was so surprising that Steve actually shuddered and pressed his hand over his heart. He turned to Bucky, who watched him contritely, his eyes as mesmerizing as ever. “Sorry, didn't mean to startle you.”

“Jerk! You almost gave me a heart attack.” Steve rubbed at his chest, playfully glaring at the other man, his presence a surprising delight. He shook his head as if to banish his thoughts of Jack and asked, “What are you doing here?”

“Well, we are in a book shop. What do you think people do in book shops, pal?”

“Yeah, okay, I fell right into that, didn't I?”

“Too easy, pal, too easy.” Bucky's lips twitched in a tender smile and Steve felt his own smile cranking up a little more. “I was looking for some new reads,” Bucky added as an afterthought, blushing slightly as if it was an embarrassment to be caught inside a book shop.

“Yeah, yeah, me too.” Steve ran his fingers through his hair.

“What caught your attention?” Bucky looked towards the shelf that Steve had been staring at it.

“Honestly, I was miles away,” Steve admitted, blushing lightly and rubbing at the back of his head, now more aware of how close they were and how good Bucky smelled. He looked good too – somehow more relaxed than he was at the bar. He was dressed in a blue sweatshirt and dark jeans and his hair was tied in a man-bun again, sunglasses keeping at bay the rest of the errant strands of hair. Steve's hands itched again with the need to pass his fingers through Bucky's hair.

“Want to look for something together?” Bucky offered hesitantly when it was clear that Steve wasn't going to add anything else. Steve swallowed thickly, confused as to why he kept feeling so nervous in Bucky's presence.

“Yeah, I'd like that.” Steve smiled, ignoring the spark of attraction between them, as both of them focused on the titles surrounding them. “I didn't know you come here?” he asked as he started perusing the titles, none of them looking familiar.

“I don't come here often.” Bucky shrugged and picked up a book called _We Are Not Ourselves,_ smiling again when he read that the main character had Irish roots. He showed it to Steve and they both smiled thick as thieves when Bucky chose to keep it, in spite of its thickness. “There's a library two blocks away from where I live so usually I just borrow books from there. But it's good to catch up on new releases sometimes or just look for something different. How about you?”

“I come here all the time,” Steve admitted, again slightly embarrassed as he pulled out a book and checked its back skimming through its summary. He showed it to Bucky, who winced, so Steve put it back and chose another. “I don't live far from it. Plus, it's quite close to my favorite coffee shop. So that helps too.”

“True.” Bucky checked a book as well. “So what kind of books do you like to read?” For the next half an hour they talked about books, which ones had impressed them the most, what they hated about literary trends and so on. Bucky was funny and smart and self-deprecating in a way Steve hadn't expected him to be. His fingers would keep on caressing the spines of the books as if regretful that he couldn't take them all home. More than once, Steve found himself enthralled by one of Bucky's gestures – the way he bit his bottom lip, the way he pushed his hair behind his ears, the way he'd look at Steve through his eyelashes – and forgot about what he was supposed to say or comment.

“No smoking this time?” Steve asked playfully when they stopped outside to chat a few more minutes, having chosen and paid for their books.

Bucky ruefully shook his head, a bashful twinge to his words, “No, told you I do it only at work.”

“Just testing you.”

“You're a punk, aren't you?”

“I've been told before.” Steve smiled and looked down the street, eyeing one of his favorite coffee shops that sold awesome sandwiches. “Hey, do you wanna grab some lunch together? I know this place where they sell some delicious sandwiches.”

“Rain check?” Bucky bit his lip and grabbed the book bag a little tighter. “I've got an appointment today that I can't miss.”

“Yeah, no, of course not. Sure.” Steve was quick to reassure him despite his own disappointment. “Some other time?”

“Yeah, I'd like that.” Bucky smiled and his blue eyes sparkled as he added, “It was good to meet you today. Enjoy the rest of your day off.”

“Thank you, I will.” Should he shake his hand? Should he give him one of those bro hugs and move along? Did they even know each other that well? By the time Steve decided what to do, Bucky was already stepping back and away, waving like a dork. He watched Bucky a few more moments before he turned as well and walked in the opposite direction. He kept his smile for the rest of the day, all thoughts of Jack disappearing in the warm haze that was Bucky.

***

Steve kicked the wooden door several times before it finally broke and let them out. The harsh daylight hit him like a ton of bricks and he staggered, whether from the additional weight on his shoulders or sheer exhaustion, he wouldn’t be able to say. His human burden groaned in pain but remained unconscious. The sudden noise of the world returned back to him with a vengeance. He was drowning in an ocean of noise. Had he not been carrying the man on his back, he would have torn away his protection helmet and covered his ears with his hands like a little boy. After the deathly silence of the scorching heat and menacing groaning of the entire building threatening to collapse on them at any moment, the uncanny noisy quality of life was overwhelming.

Steve willed his shaky legs to move. One step at a time. Even as he saw some of his colleagues run towards him to offer help, he willed himself to continue. His whole body was shaking with sheer exhaustion. He'd discovered the victim at the last minute and had carried him to safety through three flights of stairs and a dark corridor without any light at the end of the tunnel, except for Captain Fury's guiding voice. And wasn't that ironic?

He could feel his entire chest expanding, his lungs clawing inside his chest at the slightest breeze of fresh air, his heart pulsating angrily inside of him. His shoulder was hurting and his fingers were frozen in abject misery on the man's waist. His teammates finally caught up with them and Steve almost collapsed in their arms.

“Are you okay, man? Jesus Christ! Get me another goddamn medic!” Sam yelled harshly as someone else picked up Steve’s victim. God, he really hoped that someone was taking the guy to see a doctor because Steve couldn’t anymore.

He pulled his helmet off and collapsed on his knees and gulped fresh air that seemingly refused to get inside his chest. Smoke was still coming off his suit, his hands reddened and terrible looking – he must have hurt them when he was still digging for the guy through smoking debris, protection gloves lost one floor up; the helpless whimper of the man as his only guidance even as fire threatened to take over them. Steve shook his head in a feeble attempt to push the memory away. He was safe now. _They_ were safe.

He gulped more air even as an EMT was already by his side and was trying to shove an oxygen mask on his face. Steve pushed feebly at it but the EMT wouldn’t budge. It hurt – the whole breathing process hurt much more than he had thought it would. Every breath stung, his chest held tight like a vice within the grasp of some invisible claws and his nose burning. He let the EMT help him stand up and slowly lay on a stretcher. He couldn’t breathe or talk and his hands were beginning to feel like they’d been slowly cooked over a roaring fire. Maybe they had been.

Sam was back by his side again, his face twisted in worry. He kept asking Steve for something but he couldn't concentrate. The questions were flying up above him like charred paper. Steve’s vision began to swim, his whole horizon engulfed by the top of the building burning threateningly as if the entire sky was an immense funeral pyre.

It was a little over eight o’clock on a crisp and cloudy Monday morning and it was going to be a terrible week.

***

By Thursday morning, Steve's mood didn't improve much.

The bell above the door of his usual coffee place, tucked away in a little known corner of Park Slope, rang invitingly above him as he pushed the door open with his elbow and walked in. There weren’t a lot of people at that time of the day and Steve was glad for it. He had enough of people staring at him yesterday afternoon when he went to pick up some groceries and just about everyone in the shop had given him funny looks as if the white gauze wrapped tightly around both his hands meant he was an illegal fighter or something. As for the ones that knew him well like Mrs. Chen or Mr. Velasco, well, they wanted to know the story, to which he had been able to whisper _work_ because they'd understand and they'd never push.

As the line moved forward, Steve scowled at the floor. What was the point in telling them since they wouldn't get the horror of the scorching heat and the desperate pulse in his throat? He had his colleagues and his friends and that was more than enough. He ignored the pang in his chest that warned him that he was fooling himself – he'd been reckless in a way he hadn’t been since the whole Captain America incident and he'd noticed the way Sam had watched him carefully, worry etched on his face.

He slightly shook his head as if motion alone would disperse his troublesome thoughts.

“What can I get you, hon?” Janet’s words pulled him out of his misery and he tried to smile politely at her. He must have done a terrible job out of it because Janet's smile turned softer still.

“Large black coffee, please,” he answered, ignoring the look that the other barista – Ethan or Elon? – was throwing his way. His voice was still hoarse from the smoke inhalation and all the oxygen they pried into him as a result.

“Be right up,” Janet replied and turned back to have it ready.

This is what he loved about this coffee shop. Janet knew when it was time to make polite conversation with her customers and when it was time to send them on their merry way. Also, when it was time to send them to hell and back if they were rude or aggressive to her or any other member of staff in her shop. The customer was very rarely right in Janet’s coffee shop. As a former retail employee, Steve approved wholeheartedly Janet’s business flair, occasionally helping her politely ask a customer to leave. Once or twice.

He stepped aside and waited politely for his order. The sun was shining brightly outside and the quiet chatter inside the coffee shop soothed him.

“Steve?”

Hearing his name called out by that familiar voice felt like a ghost had walked over his goddamn grave, a cold sweat breaking on his skin. He sucked in a deep breath and even as he turned, he tried to keep his face as bland as possible and adopted his customer smile.

“Hey! Wow! My God!” Heart pounding, Steve bit the inside of his cheeks as he took in Jack and his surprised eyes. He bit his lip in a feeble attempt to steel himself. “You look great,” Steve added as an afterthought but Jack had always been good at reading his hesitations so he narrowed his green eyes at him and mumbled a _thanks_. Jack was slightly taller than Steve but more on the lithe type, with a narrow waist and a mouth that always gave him a discontent sort of look. But he was smart and funny and kind to animals, though sometimes not so kind to men. They'd been good for a while. Until they weren't.

“How have you been?” Steve asked when Jack didn't seem inclined to add anything else and gazed at his wounded hands before looking down and away with a hard sort of look on his face. The indie music filled the space between them and it looked as if Jack wasn't going to answer his question after all.

“Good, really good.” Jack said at last and smiled hesitantly as he looked over his shoulder briefly before refocusing on Steve. “You probably heard the big news.”

“News?” Steve rubbed his nape and winced when he remembered that he still had taped hands for a reason. He let it fall by his side away and bit his lip. “What? You finally got back to grad school?”

“Yeah, no, Steve.” Jack took a sip of his overly sweet concoction. “I got engaged. My fiancé is right over there.” And he pointed proudly to a guy in a blue jacket outside the coffee shop, sipping meticulously from his own cup. Steve’s stomach bottomed to a new level of low. The guy seemed nice enough, not that Steve was a good judge of character. After all, he had also thought that Jack would be able to face Steve’s hectic schedule, the quiet life he led in the rest of the time, and the few people that he could call friends. Steve gritted his teeth – the effort had been mutual in the beginning, but then it turned out it hadn't been enough.

The guy chose that moment to look up from his phone and Jack mumbled an _I’ll be right back_ to him before he returned his attention to Steve, this time aglow.

“We just – we just set a date for early next year. Thought you would’ve known.” Jack’s smile dimmed when he looked closer at Steve. “Nobody said anything?”

 _Who, goddamn it?_ Steve wanted to yell. _Who could possibly give this news since most of our friends turned up to be your friends and they couldn’t give a damn about me once we broke up?_

“No,” he chose to answer instead, “no, they didn’t.” He sounded like a petulant child and Jesus, could Janet please hurry up with that goddamn coffee?

“I couldn’t wait for you forever,” Jack added defensively, his shoulders now rising slightly into the half-remembered hard line of long evenings spent fighting or simply ignoring each other. Had they promised such a thing to each other? Had they promised to make commitments and try to change and wait for each other? Steve couldn't remember anymore.

“No, I know that.”

“Well, I never stopped loving you. Did you know that?”

Anger surged suddenly inside of him, hot and heavy, pulsating like a crushing storm inside of him. What was the point of such an affirmation? What was the point of admitting a sort of love that had hurt both of them in the long run? Steve clenched his jaw, back stiffening. He bit the inside of his cheeks hard and awkwardly pressed a bandaged hand against his chest as if he'd keep his heart right there and not let it scatter asunder and churned into a messy pile of dirt.

It was a terrible thing to hear. It was a terrible thing to say. They had pressed against each other like crashing waves, over and over again, and at times it had felt that they had been trying to convince each other that they'd been in love when in reality, that odd affection and attraction never did pass on to the next level. They'd been in love and they hadn't been. Did that make sense?

“That’s two twenty-five, hon,” Janet interrupted their awkward staring contest and Steve shuddered as he took a deep breath and turned back to her to give her the money.

“Thanks. Keep the change!” He clumsily picked up his cup and watched as Jack's eyes hardened at the sight of his wounded hands.

“I have to get back.” Jack glanced back at his fiancé, who was now making silly faces at him and god, but Steve’s heart hurt badly enough to feel nauseous. Jack waved amusedly and blew him a kiss.

“I just – I don-t – I even – But – I wanna,” Steve said hesitantly at a loss for the right words.

He couldn't say _I'm sorry_.

He couldn't say _But you're happy now_.

He couldn't even say _Goodbye_.

“Don’t.”

“Okay.”

“Take care of yourself,” Jack said quietly as he caught sight of Steve’s hands again. His eyes cleared, the same tender look in his eyes like that first time when they met and it was raining and they shared an umbrella because Steve couldn’t bear the thought of that gorgeous man catching a cold. His damp curls might have had something to do with it too. And all those tender moments that they had shared at some point flashed before Steve’s eyes, those secretive smiles and gentle caresses made him plead for a moment of respite.

“Wait,” he said, “wait.”

“Yeah?” Jack looked at him expectantly, though his attention drifted already to the other man that he now loved. And with the sun shining at his back, gazing away lovingly, Jack seemed already happy and further removed from Steve. The world started moving again and Steve relaxed his stance once more. Those tender moments were long gone.

“I’m,” he swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat, “I’m happy for you.”

“Really?” One of Jack's eyebrows took upon itself the impossible mission to touch one of the curls laying on his forehead. “You never were a really good liar.”

“God, I don’t want – I don’t want us to be just a memory.” But the words _I want us to stay friends_ couldn't push past his lips.

“Oh, you should have thought of that a long time ago,” Jack replied, and there was enough resentment in those words to understand that friendship was out of the question between the two of them. “Goodbye, Steve.” Jack leaned forward and pressed a dry kiss on Steve’s left cheek, then he was out of the coffee shop before Steve could even react to it.

***

Steve’s earliest memories in life were tinged with the scent of his mama’s apple pie, its sweet cinnamon scent giving him a sense of hope, and the taint of loneliness. Steve tried to impress upon his therapist in the beginning what a huge difference it made having lost his whole family and having literally no one left. His therapist didn’t get it, except at a sympathetic level, and Steve really didn’t have the time to explain that incomprehensible void. It was as if his identity had suddenly been wiped out after his mother’s death. For the longest time, it had been just him and his mother, pressing together in their tiny corner of the world to make themselves visible and loved. And when there was nobody else to offer them love, they had loved and cared for each other as two people aware that that was _it_.

Some things stayed with you for a long time. Like mold. Like a gaping wound that didn’t close properly or never closed in the first place. Like a terrible void inside.

Some things lingered forever.

***

By mid-afternoon, Steve couldn't stand being in his apartment anymore, replaying time and again his conversation with Jack, picking on the words, thinking of what he could have said or done; imagining different scenarios that were now impossible to re-enact. This bitter restlessness was driving him insane, so he grabbed his leather jacket and walked the whole ten blocks to _Sláinte_ because the thought of being trapped inside of a taxi with his terrible thoughts was excruciating. And when he finally sat at the bar, elbows pushing into the wooden edge, he felt like he could breathe for the first time in days.

Jack had been happy when he had looked at the other man outside that coffee shop. Jack had looked like a man in love and still had been cruel when he had told Steve that he'd never stopped loving him. What was the point of that sort of love when it had been clear that they couldn't make each other happy? What was the point of admitting fruitless feelings when one of them was already engaged to someone else? _Engaged_. And wasn't that terrible enough? They'd been together for little over a year, moved in together for about six months out of that year and yet the commitment to each other had never been so serious. Had it been Jack's fault when Steve's job started to take a toll on them? Had it been Steve's fault that he wasn't able to find a solution to a more normal schedule? Had it been their fault entirely or the fault of their circumstances? Why couldn't life be black or white but instead spread this confusion, making Steve feeling guilty and terrible, bile ever present at the back of his throat?

“Steve?” Bucky's voice pulled him out of his misery, enough to look up at the other man. Wintry eyes watched him in concern, taking in his wounded hands and his crestfallen expression.

“Buck,” his voice sounded hoarse and bitter, unrecognizable. He pushed the heels of his wounded palms to his eyes in a feeble attempt to get a grip of himself. It really was a terrible week. “I need a shot of whiskey,” he said. “Double, neat.”

“I think you need rest and maybe a glass of water,” Bucky replied, and when Steve took his hands away, he could see the other man pointedly looking at his wounded hands. “I'm sure you're on antibiotics for them, not to mention a pain killer or two. Alcohol should be the last thing you should want.”

“I don't need a goddamn dad, Bucky, telling me what to do,” Steve said harshly, that familiar anger surging up inside of him again. “It seems like everybody and their mother know what's best for me. Well, this is a goddamn bar and I want a goddamn shot of whiskey and spare the bartender therapy bullshit.”

“No.”

The answer was so unexpected that Steve blinked in confusion several times before his brain finally caught up with it. “Excuse me?”

“You can be a goddamn punk all you want, but I'm not going to sell you alcohol.” The hard cut of Bucky's jaw gave him a sort of cruel look, determined and merciless. The slight stubble that spread over his cheeks only magnified that impression and Steve could feel his rage hot and bitter pooling down inside his stomach, unafraid and relentless.

“You're kind of a jerk, aren't you?”

“Takes one to know one.” Bucky bit his lip and ignored the patron a few seats away that cleared his voice in a feeble attempt to draw his attention for another glass of whatever he was drinking. “Now a glass of water or not?”

“Make it sparkling and I might just forgive you,” Steve replied, at last, slightly seething at his foiled attempt to get his mind away from Jack and the terrible no good week.

“Shouldn't I be the one to forgive you in the first place, pal?” Bucky's shoulders relaxed a little bit and though he didn't smile, his eyes twinkled with amusement. It was enough to deflate Steve. The gentle look that Bucky gave him made everything hurt all the more.

“Don't you dare touch my hair,” he growled back when a quiet sort of tenderness pressed behind those beautiful blue eyes. Bucky raised his hands in mock defense.

“I wouldn't dare. Punk!”

“Jerk!”

Bucky retreated back and served the other few patrons spread out around the massive bar, most of them keeping to themselves. Steve sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to calm down – his mother had always warned him against these sudden bursts of rage when he would lash out at someone. As he had grown, these episodes had gotten few and far in between, but sometimes the uselessness of his feelings surged up again like a hurricane, hungry and monstrous, and left him depleted and aware of his own failings.

“So, want to tell me what the hell happened?” Bucky asked when he returned with a glass of cold sparkling water. It even had a slice of lemon in it.

“Work happened,” Steve mumbled and drank half of the glass in one long gulp.

“I didn't mean your hands.” Bucky pushed his hair behind his ears. “I meant what got your panties in a twist.”

“God, Buck, seriously?” Steve's bitter laugh rang oddly in the semi-quiet bar. “Who uses that expression anymore?”

“I do, so spill.”

“Nah, it's okay. You don't need to hear about my ex.”

“Your ex?” Bucky rested an elbow on the bar and leaned closer towards Steve. “Now _that_ I got to hear. What happened?”

“We met this morning by chance.” Words spilled out like water from a faucet. “And he casually told me that he got engaged. Then he told me that he never stopped loving me. I mean, _who_ does that? Who the hell does that nowadays? What was the point of telling me about his engagement in one sentence and about his feelings for me in the next?”

“Maybe he cares for you still.”

“Don't,” Steve growled, his shoulders tensing even more. “Don't take his side.”

“I'm not taking his side,” Bucky replied quietly. “I'm just saying that every story has two sides and that it may very well be his side.”

“Well, that side is two years late.”

“Why did you break up in the first place?”

“I'm not opening that can of worms.” Steve took another sip of his water and pushed the tips of his fingers through his hair, ignoring the slight tinge of pain. “I just don't get it,” he continued, the tiredness in his voice was most definitely audible. “He was the one that broke up with me, the one that couldn't stand the schedule of a firefighter's life anymore. The one that wanted me to change until there was nothing left of me. And for a moment there, in that goddamn coffee place, I was happy for him. I was happy that he seemed to have finally found what he has been looking for. But then he had to ruin everything and talk about his feelings.”

“Are you angry because he mentioned his feelings or because he found his happiness?” Bucky was definitely not the type of person to shy away from a tough conversation.

“I don't know. Neither? Both?” Steve sighed and rested his elbows on the counter-top as well. There was a faint scent of aftershave and beer coming from Bucky. It was most alluring. Steve watched him through his eyelashes. “Is there an answer that doesn't make me look like a jerk?”

“None, pal, but that's okay. All of us are jerks every once in a while.” Bucky leaned back and went to serve someone else before coming back to Steve with an open bottle of beer. At Steve's raised eyebrow, Bucky shrugged. “It's non-alcoholic. To have a sort of atmosphere at least as you wallow in self-pity.”

“I don't wallow in self-pity!” Steve exclaimed outraged but he got the bottle of beer and downed half of it in one go. “Oh, wow, okay, this definitely doesn't taste as advertised.”

“I know, but you looked like you needed it.” Bucky rubbed at his stubbled cheek. “The thing is we're all doing it every once in a while so that's okay.”

“I don't want to wallow in self-pity though.” Steve sighed and took another gulp of his tasteless beer. “It just wasn't the best week to have such a meeting, you know? Also, I do hate the fact that he said he never stopped loving me when in reality, he _did_. He did stop loving me. Otherwise, he would have made an effort. He would have made an effort to make this work.”

“There was no point in making an effort if the other person wasn't there, Steve.” Bucky didn't budge when Steve glared at him. “What? You keep telling me that you hate what the guy said. But you know what it sounds to me like? Like an excuse. It sounds to me like you might have expected him to make the effort when there was none from your part. Because you actually know that there might be a little bit of truth in his side of the story.”

“That's kind of a mean thing to say.”

“You looked like you needed someone to say it though. In all honesty.”

“Yeah, but not by a stranger that basically knows nothing about me or my relationships.” Steve straightened up and drank the rest of the beer in defiance. Bucky's hard eyes never once left his face. “No offense, pal, but we don't know each other that well. Also, honesty? That's funny coming from a guy that never speaks about his life and lets others do the talking.”

“That's a completely different story and you know it.”

“Yeah, well, it's easy to be brave with other people's stories, isn't it?” All that pent up rage was about to explode all over again. “It's easy to give verdicts about this and that when most of the times you keep yourself away from all the others.” Storms and lightning were gathering behind Bucky's impenetrable eyes but Steve just couldn't keep his mouth shut.

“Are you talking about me, pal? Or are you talking about yourself?” Steve shook his head in denial but it wasn't enough to put an end to the miserable line of thought coming through his mind. “Why are you so angry, Steve?” Bucky asked in a rough voice as if he just had a shot of gravel wrapped in shards and sand.

“Because it's not fair!” Steve shouted and blushed hard when finally, the other patrons looked up at him as if he was kind of freak. In one clumsy move that was more dramatic in his mind than in reality, he stood up and pushed against the door before he could think twice. He needed to breathe and he needed to breathe _now_. Away from Bucky's diamond cut stare and his inquisitive mind and the fact that this was the longest conversation they'd ever had and it had to be about Steve's goddamn stupid ex and his insecurities.

He was going to be sick. He was going to throw up. He made it to the back alley behind the bar and sucked in harsh breaths like it was enough to calm down. Like he didn't just get out of the bar like a twelve-year-old instead of a thirty-two-year-old man. It took a few minutes to calm enough to sense that Bucky was behind him, quietly waiting for him.

“What's not fair?” His gruff voice again sent shivers down his spine.

“It's not fair,” Steve's voice sounded strangled even to his own ears. He pushed his forehead against the wall, welcoming the harsh cold of damp brick against his skin. He pressed his hands against as well, gently, keeping his back at Bucky. He wouldn't have the courage to be honest if he had another look at the other man.

“What's not fair, Steve?”

“It's not fair to see the way life passes me by in a way it didn't before. It's not fair to have Jack happy with another man when he could have been with _me_. It's not fair to wish him to be happy and still be miserable that I don't have someone like him in my life.” Steve opened his eyes and turned towards Bucky, hands falling uselessly beside his body. “It's not fair to watch you,” he muttered harshly, “ _always watch you_ , always be aware of you, and never do something about it because I'm scared. I'm always so goddamn scared.”

Bucky's eyes widened in pure surprise and seriously, how could Steve be so blind all along? With the way he drew Bucky and thought about him and was so attuned with him. With the amount of time he'd been spending at the bar, although he didn't like to drink all that much. Bucky and his stupid long hair and his stubble that sometimes made him look like he was a goddamn homeless person. Bucky and his Henleys and his jeans that gave him a rugged look, one that no man had the business of having. Bucky with his repressed smile, the sad twitch to each and every one of them.

“It's not fair,” Bucky said in turn, eyes stormy and perfect, “to be coming back alive and mostly in one piece and not find my place anymore. It's not fair to keep on smoking because Daniels was the first one to give me a smoke and he blew up in front of my eyes.” Bucky sighed and pushed his hands through his hair, making him look more disheveled. “It's not fair to keep on praying that one day, I get to be brave enough to speak to you properly, Steve. And ask you on a date.” Bucky smiled ruefully. “Even when I think you're way out of my league.”

“Jesus Christ, Bucky! Jesus Christ!” Steve pushed into Bucky's space before he even realized he had been moving at all, cupping his cheeks with his taped hands and pressing his lips against Bucky's full ones, kissing him hot and fierce and mean.

He kissed Bucky like he was on a mission of exploration and he needed to get as much information as possible. He nipped at those lips and kissed them time and time again and when Bucky finally opened them slightly, Steve tasted everything. They kissed uninhibited and famished of each other. Desperate and aggressive.

And Steve knew. He knew now. This? Was never going to be enough.

***

As soon as they got inside his apartment, Steve slammed Bucky against the door, pushing a thigh in between his legs and kissing the hell out of him. The hunger to taste Bucky, to have him at the mercy of his hands was overwhelming. The kisses were hungry clashes of tongues and teeth, his broad hands curling possessively against Bucky's narrow waist, ignoring the painful twinge.

 _It isn't enough. Dear Lord, it isn't enough_ crossed briefly through Steve's mind, aware that he might actually happily spend the rest of the night kissing Bucky Barnes if only for the pleasure of hearing the small noises that he was making, if only to feel how those hands grabbed fistfuls of his jumper and held on and on. As if without Steve, Bucky was drowning; as if without holding on to Steve, he would scatter to the wind like a dandelion blown in the middle of a hurricane.

For a while, they kissed messily against the door, moaning softly, before Steve slowly began to move sinuously against Bucky, who thought better and sneaked his hands under Steve's jumper and pushed them hungrily against the hot skin of his back, deft fingers pressing against each knob, scratching tenderly and marking him. It was as if he was laying claim on each part of Steve's body and that was enough to drive Steve crazy.

A maddening sort of pleasure raised low inside his belly, thick like molasses, unbearably overwhelming. It felt like drowning. Steve pulled back a little to let them both breathe, forehead to forehead, unable to let go further than that. The tenderness in the way Bucky continued to move his hands on his back in gentle caresses scraped Steve raw. The gentle comfort of having those calloused hands pushing his jumper up, up and away, was maddening.

"Bucky, I –” Steve whispered in a broken voice, his words just patches of intention never taken to the finish line. Voiceless, he watched as Bucky pushed at his own jacket until it fell to the floor with a muffled sound. He watched Steve through his thick eyelashes, eyes stormy as ever, jaw clenched tight like he was preparing for the worst. Steve watched him incomprehensibly.

“I should warn you. It's not pretty.” Bucky's gruff voice sounded desperate and longing. Steve shook his head in a futile attempt to clear his mind up before he smiled hesitantly.

“I don't care.”

“You will.”

Bucky's hands trembled minutely and distractedly as he pushed his t-shirt up and over his head, leaving him vulnerable against Steve's eyes. Because Bucky? Was imperfectly gorgeous. His torso was mostly unmarked, except for quite a large patch of skin halfway between his abdomen and his back, on the right side of his waist. It looked as if a dragon had bitten into the sensitive skin and burnt it so as if to mark it forever. As a firefighter, Steve didn't need to be told how much it must have hurt, how devastating and crippling the pain must have been when it had happened. Therefore, it was utterly ironic to push the tips of his scorched fingers against the sensitive skin, taking in each raised ridge of skin, each patch of tender flesh left marked forever.

All the times he had drawn Bucky and not once did he ask himself whether that IED had marked Bucky, whether there were scars and wounds blistered across his skin. Whether there was more to the quiet man than he showed, his reluctance of talking about what happened in the last tour more a sign of modesty in Steve's mind than the reluctance of a man that had been through hell. How superficial he had been!

Before he even realized what the hell he was doing, Steve sank to his knees at once and pressed his nose against Bucky's belly, taking a deep breath. Bucky's scent was mouthwatering. Steve pushed tighter against the blemished skin and took another deep breath, Bucky's hands gently running through his hair. Then he sucked and kissed that tender flesh, lips and tongue mad with Bucky's taste, hoping that he'd leave his mark, that he'd make Bucky his at least for the time being. He dragged his thumbs over his belly as he curled his hands on the slim hips and fiercely sucked at another patch of skin over Bucky's right hip.

They stood there like that for ages as Steve scrapped his teeth over each patch of skin he could touch, sucking and teasing, making a mess out of this man; Bucky's little moans of pleasure, his sharp breaths, and the way his fingers would tense into Steve's hair lit a fire of pleasure inside his belly

"Oh, sweetheart," Steve heard himself speaking into Bucky's skin, hoarse and needy, "you don't know what you do to me." Bucky's fingers pulled hard at Steve's hair before making him stand up again and rewarding him with knife-edged kisses, painful in their greediness. “Come to bed with me,” Steve whispered between kisses and he couldn't recognize his raw voice.

Dizzy with need – fuck, he'd never thought it could feel so good – Steve took Bucky's hand in his and pulled him towards the bedroom, slamming the door shut and pushing the other man on the bed. Both of them were quick to make away with their clothes and Steve mouthed at the base of Bucky's cock before they were completely aware of what was going on, laving it with attention, Bucky's tiny noises of pleasure music to his ears.

Steve took the crown of the cock in his mouth and gently sucked it as Bucky's hands clenched in his hair almost painfully – it made Steve diamond rock hard. But it didn't matter. He wanted more. He tried to take Bucky in his mouth as much as he could, using his hand for the rest. As soon as he started on a rhythm, Steve seemed to lose it completely. The need burnt inside his belly hot and bitter and he wanted release but not before sucking Bucky deeper, harder. Not before taking in each patch of skin, each scar, each freckle and each mole.

Steve hungered for every small patch of Bucky’s skin, the curve of his back, the hardness of his muscles. He’d never felt as greedy as he did in that moment. He craved to taste him and touch him in ways that he’d forgotten how to do. He craved to put his mark on Bucky so he listened to his instinct, concentrating on each part as he trailed kisses down Bucky's spine, as he mapped the jut of those hips, sucking mean bruises on each of them. Steve lost himself to the scent of Bucky's skin, its taste, as he bit and kissed him from his lips to his nipples to his cock.

And when he pressed at last inside of him, when Steve could finally conjure all that pleasure and multiply it, they were both breathless and amazed, looking at each other with widened eyes, molten desire pressing down to their very bones.

Steve couldn’t remember if he’d ever had such an intimate connection with anyone else in his life, not that it mattered because he could lose himself inside of Bucky’s body and he’d never wanted to find his way out again. It was as if the man underneath him had been specifically created for Steve and vice-versa. Bucky’s arms wrapped around Steve’s shoulders and pulled him even closer, their foreheads touching gently as Steve thrust achingly slow. Savoring it. Taking his time, driving Bucky to the edge, again and again, the urgency of his own desire and release melting away in the background.

The world disappeared around them, resumed to that bed and the small space they created for themselves. It morphed into something indistinguishable, letting them savor each other as they kissed and kissed and kissed. Breathlessly. Wondrously.

***

Steve was sleeping on his stomach, one arm under the pillow when he suddenly opened his eyes. He blinked several times, confused, and listened carefully to the sleepy sounds of the apartment as if he might identify what had awaken him in the first place. When nothing out of the ordinary pierced through his sleepy mind, he sighed contently and closed his eyes again, burrowing deeper under the duvet. In spite of going to bed in just a pair of boxers, a warm sort of feeling pressed around him, fuzzy and undefined, and he almost fell asleep again when he abruptly realized what he was missing.

He turned on his side with a sleepy smile on his face, only to freeze when he realized that the half of bed where Bucky should be was empty and cold. Steve's fingers splayed on the sheet and he blinked incomprehensibly at the spot where Bucky should have been. Shame suddenly flooded him, bitter and poisonous, embarrassed by his own foolishness of thinking that he’d get to wake up next to Bucky. He stood up slowly, sheet and duvet pooling around his naked waist, and rubbed at his eyes. The thickness of the dark inside the room signaled that it was still late at night, which made everything so much worse.

He wiped his face tiredly, welcoming the harshness of the gesture, and looked around his bedroom as if the inanimate objects could answer his questions. But it was late and he was tired after such an emotional day and so the shame and the reproaches to himself would have to wait in the morning. He didn't bother turning on the lights as he made his way to the bathroom. After taking care quickly of his needs, he picked up a t-shirt from his hamper, put it on, and went back to bed.

He watched the light of his alarm clock reflecting on the ceiling, thinking about his breathing and counting seconds, when the soft noise on the other side of the room almost caused him a heart attack. He turned on the lamp on his nightstand and the room was inundated with a soft glow. He passed to the other side of the bed and looked down.

Bucky was sleeping on the floor. Steve blinked several times. Bucky was still there, inside his room, sleeping on the goddamn floor. He had made a small nest for himself on the floor, curled into himself and covered with a blanket that Steve usually kept on his bed. He looked heartbreakingly comfortable and Steve didn't have the heart to wake him up. Instead, he turned off the lamp again and grabbed his pillow.

Without even thinking whether it was a good idea or not, he arranged his pillow next to Bucky's and, pulling the duvet off the bed, he gently covered both of them with it. He closed his eyes and tenderly curled himself around the other man, resting a hand on his waist. He didn't know whether this was a good idea or not, but the closeness of Bucky's body was alluring and he pressed closer still.

He pushed the stressful thoughts at the back of his mind and let himself fall asleep again, lulled by Bucky's soft breathing in the dark.

 


	2. Bucky: Cinders and Sparks

Bucky’s first memories were tainted with the smell of burnt asphalt and the patter of the rain on the roof of the car. He and Becca would play silly games like _I spy_ or tongue twisters but most of the time, they’d be silent. Bucky would watch the scenery melt away or study his mom's tense shoulders. There were small towns and abandoned farms, wide highways and narrow country roads. Mom drove through all of them with a sense of high purpose, set on finding a place they might call home at long last. There were multiple schools, hotel rooms, friends' couches or not even that; forgotten diners and greasy breakfasts. The ephemeral nature of them as a unit, as a family. His mom's empty eyes during those days. Her shallow smiles and shallower hugs.

Sometimes the incertitude of his world would grate on Bucky’s nerves.

But he understood. In a way. After the divorce became official, signed paperwork and all, when Winnie Taylor could barely hold it together, she woke up one morning with a sense that something had to be done. The miserable two-bedroom apartment had to be cleared, most of their stuff sold or put into storage and their schools abandoned for a short while. Bucky had several notebooks in which he would put all sorts of thoughts and stick abandoned pictures in, three pens, and a pair of sunglasses that accompanied him all the way to adulthood. Becca had her old camera, a small collection of uncanny postcards and her teddy-bear that she would manage to keep all the way through college and well into her new apartment. Apart from clothes and the bare necessities that they needed, they weren’t allowed to keep anything else. Mom had the pictures of her dead parents and old letters stuffed into a crummy folder.

Some questions were better left unanswered.

This was what mom thought it was best to do at the time. Even now, Bucky couldn’t say whether it had been the best thing for Becca and him. So the smell of the burnt asphalt accompanied them for the next two years as they crossed the flat state of Indiana back and forth, sometimes going a little further away to Illinois or Michigan, avoiding the big cities like the plague. Always close, so close to the recesses of civilization but never close enough.

Bucky took another calming breath. Later, in Afghanistan, it would be the smell of burnt sand and the patter of it on the hood of the Humvee. The sense of being baked alive or boiled from the inside. Sweat and hot flushes and pain. But that had been a different story altogether, one that he didn’t want to think about right now. Still, the experience strengthened the idea that life was made of moments, beautiful and painful and raw, incredible moments snatched here and there.

If mom hadn’t met George Barnes, the man that would become a father and a husband and a partner in mischief, Bucky thought they would have been completely lost in the cracks of a system that couldn’t have cared less about the dispossessed, least of all about a divorced woman and her children, victims of domestic abuse. George Barnes with his kindness and his jokes and his no-nonsense attitude that offered Bucky a sense of safety that he'd never known before.

 _Safe_.

Bucky opened his eyes carefully, the unusual nature of his safety piercing through the veil of slumber. The enormity and frankly, embarrassing kindness of having Steve Rogers sleep next to him on the floor was a little overwhelming.

His breath accelerated, palms suddenly clammy. It was incredibly difficult to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. Steve managed to make everything seem natural, like it was an everyday thing to wake up on the floor next to his _one-night stand? potential boyfriend? lover?_ But as he opened his eyes, he couldn't help but notice the way their hands rested between the two of them – Bucky's right to Steve's right – tangled, holding on to each other, their fingers intertwined like vines. Steve’s hand was warm and calloused, his grip slack and safe. They had both slept on their sides, facing each other. For the life of him, Bucky couldn't understand what this man was doing on the floor with him.

The night before, after he had ensured that Steve had fallen asleep, Bucky had been tempted to leave. It wasn't because of the complicated thing that they'd managed to create between the two of them; nor was it because of the complications that would arise in the future whether they wanted them to or not (Steve's hang ups, Bucky's PTSD). Bucky had never been afraid of the tough things or circumstances in his life. He was tempted to leave because, simply put, he could hardly find a position in Steve's bed in which it didn't feel like he'd sink to the floor or the bed would manage to swallow him whole, like he never existed in the first place, drowned into a sea of cotton and linen. However, the thought of leaving Steve to wake up alone made bile rise at the back of his throat; therefore, the choice of sleeping on the floor came naturally.

Had Steve woken up throughout the night? Had he noticed Bucky missing? He'd never dare to ask but the unbearably kind gesture warmed his heart. Bucky leaned forward and gently kissed the tips of Steve’s fingers. He closed his eyes and held on. He was drowning in a sudden swell of affection for the other man, the same one that had made him follow him back to his apartment.

“Good morning,” the gruff voice pulled him out his revelry. Bucky opened his eyes and looked at Steve Rogers and his goddamn bearded smile, his lips full and enticing.

He should have said _You’re glorious_.

He should have said _It’s embarrassing how long I've been waiting for this_.

He should have said _I’m drowning in you. Or you in me. Or we both are drowning and I think you should save yourself._

Instead, he said in a rough whisper, “Good morning. You should have slept on the bed.”

“It would have been rude.”

“It would have been rude?” Bucky repeated, confused, and rubbed at his eyes with the other hand while still keeping their hands together. The thought of letting go made him vaguely ill.

“Yes.” Steve smiled slightly and cupped Bucky’s cheek with his free hand. “I couldn’t let you wake up alone.”

“You’re strange,” Bucky huffed but turned his head and pressed a kiss inside Steve’s palm. “Sorry for sleeping here but your bed was too soft. I felt like sleeping on a marshmallow.”

“No need to apologize.” Steve moved closer and tugged Bucky into a closed-mouthed kiss. “Hey.” His blue eyes shone in the faint light of the morning. “Is this okay?”

“More than.” Steve smiled again and leaned forward to steal another kiss, this time harder, more demanding. Bucky had been under the wrong impression that Steve would be an average kisser, but somehow the other man managed to surpass his expectations. Steve kissed as if he was doing an analysis of Bucky’s lips and needed to de-construct them at their basic level, the scrape of his beard deliciously setting his skin on fire. He pursued Bucky’s lips with diligence and greed. It was easier to surrender to their passionate siege.

It was the sweetest kind of surrender.

It would take them another hour before they took a shower. The shower gel would smell like fresh cucumber and jasmine. Steve would smell even better, like all good things brought together for Bucky. It didn’t take away the smell of burnt sand and flesh set ablaze.

It was worth a try.

It didn’t matter.

***

Breakfast was a quiet affair. Bucky discovered that Steve was the kind of guy that received _The New York Times_ and loved coffee hot and bitter. That he wasn't much of a fan of eggs in the morning but really liked bacon. That he'd watch Bucky wolf down a plate of scrambled eggs with ketchup without the slightest flinch and he'd just ask if Bucky liked a second serving. They cleaned up after themselves – Bucky washed the dishes, Steve dried them and set them back to their place – as they continued to drink their coffee and talked softly about everything and nothing. There was no sense of awkwardness, no negotiated terms of space and intimate touches – their hands would softly pat each other's backs, they'd kiss softly every so often, they'd smile without any sense of displacement.

When they finished, they grabbed a second cup of coffee. Bucky read the sports page and Steve skimmed through the editorials. They poured over the crossword together and helped each other. The closeness, both new and raw, pushed through the crevices of Bucky's heart, filling him with awe.

“So I don’t know how this works,” Steve said when they finished the crossword but they were still nursing their second cup of coffee. He was wearing a blue t-shirt and black sweats, his hair uncombed and ears slightly tinted pink. His beautiful blue eyes darted away when he noticed that Bucky was watching him.

“This?” Bucky said hoarsely and had to clear his voice before adding, “What do you mean?”

“This.” Steve gestured wildly between the two of them, his hand a sudden wingless angel between the two of them, a sort of confused condemnation.

For the longest of times, mostly because he'd spent what felt like a lifetime on the road, Bucky had loved the people in his life with no expectations whatsoever. Nonetheless, now, Bucky’s stomach churned like someone suddenly shoved a rusty coil inside of him. Tight and painful.

“You can just tell me to leave, Steve,” Bucky broke the awkward silence. “We don’t need to make a fuss about it.” He checked his cup of coffee, its bitter taste still rich on his tongue. Why did he think that -?

“I didn’t mean that.” Steve grabbed his hand again and immediately their fingers locked in a newly remembered embrace. “I meant only that I’m not good at wanting more.”

Bucky’s fingers tapped gently the side of his cup. Picking it up gently, Bucky took another mouthful of coffee, all the time watching Steve over the rim. Stalling for an answer.

“I’m not sure,” he replied softly, “whether I’m good at offering more.”

Steve’s eyes glided away from him and towards the opened window of the kitchen – it showed the neighbor's backyard and a blue sky, crisp and tinged with grey. The hard line of his jaw gave him an uncompromising look, yet Bucky had had the proof of Steve's gentleness just this morning.

“But we could try,” Steve said, at last, his gaze returning faithfully to Bucky. Unwavering and gentle. Slightly awed. “I could maybe try wanting more and you could possibly try offering more.”

“And if it doesn’t work out?”

“Then we can go on our separate ways.” Steve shrugged indifferently but there was a new tension in the way he slightly hunched his shoulders. In the small twitch of his fingers on his cup.

“That easy?”

“No, not that easy.” It had never been easy. Bucky could see that. It would take work and effort. it wasn’t easy, but breaking a lifetime pattern of avoiding attachment was a Sisyphus work.

“No, not that easy.” Bucky nodded and remained silent. Here they were at the breakfast table: a man that couldn't want more and a man that couldn't offer more but they were set on trying anyway. His fingers tightened, making Steve look up at him again. “But we can try.”

Steve's answering smile was gorgeous.

***

When Bucky returned to work that afternoon, Tamara welcomed him with a cheeky smile on her face, dimples on both sides showing, and a wink. She was wearing a chequered shirt on top of a white tee and blue jeans, her brown hair tied in a high bun. She looked really good for a person that had worked late into the night, especially since she had covered the previous shift with Mickey.

“The conquering hero returns!” she exclaimed, a wide gesture of her hand accompanying the words. There were already a few patrons lingering at the bar while others already occupied their usual seats at the dark tables. It never ceased to amaze Bucky that some people preferred to be inside _Sláinte_ even on such a beautiful day. But everyone had their own demons – Bucky would have been the last person in a position to judge.

“Yeah, yeah.” Bucky waved her off then kissed her cheek. “Thanks for yesterday.”

“I wanted to ask you whether everything turned out okay, but the beard burn on your neck says it all.” She smirked and clapped him on his arm. “Well played, my friend, well played.”

“Jesus, Tamara!” Bucky blushed so hard he could feel his ears burning. He wiped at his face and looked away, determined to let his hair down this evening, otherwise the comments wouldn’t stop coming.

“Your dad wants to see you.”

“Tattle-tale.”

“I'm sweet and innocent, is what I am.” Tamara batted her eyelashes at him as she pushed him towards the entrance for the staff.

“Riiight. Not even your mother believes that anymore,” Bucky said and made his way to the back of the bar and up on the staff stairway. Tamara's laugh accompanied him all the way up.

Ever since he was ten and George Barnes came into their lives, more than the house in Brooklyn, more than grandma Barnes' house in Indiana (where she retired after grandpa's death and where it still smelled of apple pie), more than any other place in the world, Bucky had always loved George’s office on the first floor, above the bar. He loved the old leather couch in the corner that mom had covered with a blue afghan at some point to hide away the fraying edges. He loved the old oak desk, massive and stained with ink and beer and so many scratches it almost felt alive. He loved the chairs in front of it and the pictures that covered most of the wall above the couch and half the desk. It comprised the history of the Barnes family from their immigrant beginnings in the early 1800s to the present day, a history that gave Bucky and Becca more identity than their own biological father had ever had.

The dark file cabinet that one of grandpa’s friends had built especially for him, elegant and still sturdy, stood like a silent soldier near the wall. Nowadays, it contained orders and invoices and some letters, but Bucky knew that the top shelf still had all the drawings and the cards and the birthday wishes that they’d ever done for their dad. George Barnes might never be great by any other people’s standards – he was a simple man with simple needs, who abided by his own moral code. But he was by far the best man Bucky had the privilege to meet and Bucky would always love him as his true father till the day he’d die and well beyond.

He had to remind himself of this though when he knocked on the door and opened it, only for his dad to welcome him with an all-knowing smirk on his face. The years had been kind to his dad, his dark hair starting to grey only now, although he was late into his fifties. He had always tried to keep a healthy lifestyle and it showed. It helped that he rarely drank, usually just at special occasions in the family, and he had never smoked. His blue eyes crinkled with mirth when he saw Bucky rolling his eyes.

“Ah, the prodigal son returns,” his dad said and Bucky huffed as he crashed into one of his chairs. His dad leaned back and crossed his arms. “Imagine my surprise when I came yesterday evening only to find Mickey tending the bar and Tamara smiling like the cat that got the cream. So, care to tell me where you disappeared to yesterday?”

“No.” Bucky pouted – he knew he was doing it whenever he was trying to stall to get the right answer.

“You know that there are security cameras focused on the back alley, right? I could check them and see.”

“That would be an incredible invasion of privacy, dad.” Bucky almost smiled when he saw his dad rolling his eyes in turn; honestly, it was really unbecoming of a man his age to do this.

“Really? As your father, I think I’m entitled to know who’s the guy that made my son forget about his shift altogether.”

“He didn’t make me forget about the shift. That's why you had Mickey helping out in the first place”

“So there is a guy.” Dad grinned and leaned forward again. “Please tell me it’s that Rogers kid.”

“Dad, seriously, did you check the cameras?” Bucky asked, annoyed, especially when he found himself blushing like a twelve-year-old with a crush, cheeks and ears burning hot with it.

“No, I didn’t, although the temptation was there.” Dad’s grin melted into a gentler smile when he asked, “But, seriously, was it the Rogers kid?”

“Yes,” Bucky admitted as he hid his face into his palms, “it was Steve.”

“Hell yeah! Wait till your mother hears about this.”

“Dad, no!” Horrified, Bucky took his hands away and watched his father in terror as he grabbed his phone to text Winnie. “Don’t you dare!”

“Fine, fine.” Dad put the phone back down on the desk to Bucky’s relief. But his blue eyes didn’t lose their mischievous glimmer. “Honestly, I’m surprised that you finally got the guts to tell the kid how you feel.”

“He’s not a kid anymore. He’s thirty-two, you know?”

“You’ll always be my kid and you’re thirty-three so Rogers gets to be a kid as well.”

“Okay, fine. Whatever.” Bucky pushed his hair behind his ear and looked down at his hands. “Steve’s kind,” he mumbled to his hands, unable to face his father’s loving eyes. “He’s kinder than I thought.”

“That’s one of the best things one can say about a person.” Dad’s voice was a lot more gentle and had lost its playful tone. “I’m glad that things worked out between you and Steve. Are you going out some more?”

“Yes.” His fingers tightened around each other, remembering the discussion that they had had that morning in the kitchen. Steve wanted to try so Bucky had to give it a try as well. Nobody had made him feel so safe and cared for in such a long time. He really didn’t want to miss out on that and he told his dad as much.

“I think that’s great, Bucky.” George smiled again. “I may be partial to this – you know, with you being my son and everything – but I think you deserve a break, kid. And yeah, maybe it’s not going to happen overnight. Relationships do need work from both partners involved. But look at me and your mom. We made it work, right? In spite of her two damn pesky kids that I didn’t like much.” Dad winked, making Bucky actually chuckle.

“Oh, puh-lease, tough guy. I remember that time when me and Becca gave you that mock adoption certificate that we had drawn for you. I've never seen a grown man become so emotional until then.”

“Your mom had just chopped onions for the stew.”

“How about our graduations? Becca’s new job?”

“I had something stuck into my eyes.”

“How convenient!”

“I know, right?” Dad chuckled but his eyes were soft and loving. “I just want you to be happy. Healthy and happy, that’s all a dad can hope for. And you’ve already come so far, son. Allowing yourself to be happy is the most difficult path you’ll ever be on, but I know that you’ll make it because you’re a damn strong man. And I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you, dad.” Buddy choked around the words, wiping at his face with a trembling hand.

“There’s nothing to thank me for.”

 _But there is_ , Bucky wanted to add. There were a lot of things that Bucky would have liked to thank his dad for – from the easy love that he had bestowed upon them to the way he would always get emotional about their proofs of love; from his easy acceptance of Bucky’s sexuality to the way he had slept in that uncomfortable chair by Bucky's hospital bed back in Germany, when Bucky had almost gone mad with pain. He took a few deep breaths trying to control the deep emotion and the love for his dad that washed over him in that moment.

“You want us to hug, don’t you? Bucky joked softly when he managed enough strength to push his words past his lips.

“Of course.” George stood up and came around the desk, pulling Bucky up and giving him a bear hug. The older man was still taller than Bucky and to the unknown eye, they really looked like father and son. When he had been little and he had become convinced that George wasn't going to leave them, Bucky had searched hard and at length any similarities between them. There had been a time, in which he had secretly hoped that he was actually George's biological son all along and that mom had been hiding the secret from him in the hopes that one day they'd meet again. It had been foolish and painful at times. However, now Bucky knew better – he and George had always been father and son in all the ways that counted.

“But you’re still giving me details about your tryst with Rogers.”

Bucky groaned into his dad’s shoulder, the same shoulder that had been hurt one summer when he had repaired the porch and had managed to almost break his neck on the stairs. The same shoulder that Becca cried on when she didn’t get into Columbia, which had been her first choice in terms of universities; the same shoulder that Bucky cried on the first time he came on leave, after having discovered that war was not as he had expected. The same shoulder that most likely his mom cried that first time she had confessed all the terrible things that her ex-husband had done to her and to her kids. This man – Bucky inhaled deeply and tried to keep his emotions in check – deserved to know about Steve Rogers if only because they seemed built from the same kind of mould. And so Bucky told the story. Not in many details but he did. Because Bucky needed someone to confide in without acting as a lawyer for any of the sides.

“That’s all you can do, son,” George said after he carefully listened to Bucky’s tale. “Give yourselves a chance.”

“But what if it doesn’t work out, dad? What if at some point Steve might want more than I can give? Or he might want less? Or nothing at all?”

“But that’s what relationships are for, son.” George watched Bucky with all the seriousness in the world. “It’s about negotiation and communication and respect. As long as you two can offer each other this, then that’s all that matters. It’s hard work, but as long as you think it’s worth it and as long as both of you work hard enough for this, then I think you’ll be just fine.”

“How come are you so wise all of a sudden?” Bucky joked, unable to cope anymore with the seriousness of the conversation and the emotions that were hard to keep in check at the moment.

“I have no clue what you’re talking about. I’ve always been full of wisdom.”

“You’ve been full of something, all right.”

“My own son disrespecting me in my own office.” George put his hand on his heart mockingly. “It’s because I gave you that hug, isn’t it? Wait till your mother hears about this.”

“I don’t think we need to get mom involved in this.”

“In that case, go back to work. I’m not paying you to listen to your romantic troubles.”

“Maybe you should give me a pay rise.” Bucky stood up again and stretched. “For bringing a bit of spice in your old boring life.”

“Maybe I should fire you and get myself another guy that doesn’t disrespect his dad.”

“Maybe –”

“Son, I know we can do this all day, but I really have to finish this invoice.” Bucky chuckled at his dad’s despondent face because George Barnes hated the financial side of his business with the power of a thousand suns.

“Yeah, I guess that’s punishment enough for you.”

“That’s the thanks I get for being an awesome father.” Dad shook his head in mock despair.

“Nah, I’ll take you out for lunch one of these days.”

“At Nuncio’s?”

“Fine.” Bucky rolled his eyes when dad slapped his palms together and rubbed them in a greedy gesture.

“This has brightened my day already.”

“Of course it did. I’d never seen a man eat as many meatballs as you do. I’m not sure your stomach will thank you for it.”

“Nope, but my heart will.” They both smiled at each other than Bucky waved his way out of the office. “See you later, Romeo!” His dad yelled after him.

“I hate you!” Bucky sing-songed as he slammed the door for good measure but took the stairs down, feeling lighter. His dad had managed to put things better into perspective and assuaged some of Bucky’s fears. Now, if only he could keep this sort of calm for a longer period of time, that would be great. Awesome even.

But he knew it was too much to wish for.

***

The phone rang while he was still in the shower. He didn't hear it the second time either. However, by the third time, Bucky dashed into his bedroom and picked it up annoyed, the towel firmly secured around his hips, the tips of his hair wet and kind of annoying at the back of his head.

“What the hell do you want, Barton?” he barked as he managed to secure the phone between his shoulder and cheek and pulled up a clean pair of boxers then his blue jeans.

“Is this how you answer your phone when your brother, nay, your best friend in the whole wide world is calling you? Desperate and in need?” Clint chuckled in direct contradiction to his needy tone but Bucky still rolled his eyes.

“Hold on!” Bucky told him then quickly left the phone on the bed to pull on a clean baseball t-shirt before he took the phone back into his hand. “So what's up?”

“So you know how much I love you, right? In spite of the fact that Lucky seems to favor you these days. But seriously, our love is for the ages and all that.”

“One, Lucky has always favored me, asshole, because I'm nice to him and I feed him something other than pizza. And two, whoever listens to you right now thinks that you're going to propose to me. Which, by the way, gross. So hurry up and tell me what you want so I can quickly say no and hang up.”

“Awww, Bucky! Now my heart is completely broken. By the way, you'd be so lucky for me to propose.”

“Nah, it isn't like that, Barton. I still haven't forgiven you for puking on me at Jason's party.”

“Bucky Barnes, holding on to grudges since the nineties.”

“And don't you forget it!”

“Fine, fine. Be an old grumpy man!” Clint said dramatically. Bucky chuckled because this thing with Clint never got old.

“Okay, seriously, is everything all right?” Bucky asked at last in a more serious tone, slightly worried that he kept Clint from mentioning what he actually called for.

“Yeah, don't worry. I'm okay.” His friend's voice turned more serious as well, a slight tilt to his consonants. “I was just wondering whether you've left for work. And in case you didn't, if you could drop my spare bag that I can keep at your place. I forgot mine at home and there's a really long shift ahead of me.”

“How did you manage to do that?” Bucky stalled for an answer because his heart suddenly beat a lot louder in his ears. The thought of seeing Steve as well sent a pleasant shiver down his spine.

“Kate was late to pick up Lucky this morning, I managed to ruin my coffee pot, _and_ I may or may not have slipped in the shower.”

“Seriously, the fact that all of this is coming from an adult man, who's a firefighter no less, is kind of scary.”

“Bucky!” Clint whined. Bucky took the phone away from his ear and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please! More of _Yes, Clint, dear brother from another mother, I'll be most happy to bring you the spare bag and maybe see Steve in the meantime_. And less of _Clint, you're a fucking disaster and I don't know why I'm friends with you_.”

“Clint, you're a fucking disaster, but I know exactly why the hell I'm friends with you.” Bucky emphasized each word because it was clear that it was just one of those days for Clint when nothing came out right. “And yes, I'll bring you an extra cup of coffee as well, just because you really are my brother from another mother, dipshit.”

“Our love is for the ages, baby!” Clint crowed and seriously, Bucky just wondered sometimes how in the hell the two of them managed to stay friends for so long.

“Is there anything else that you need? Because I won't make the trip there twice.”

“Nah. I'm good, thank you.” Someone yelled in the background but there was no siren going on so that was always a good sign. “Listen, Bucky, I got to go. But thanks for doing this.”

“No problem. See you soon.”

“See ya'.”

Bucky went and pulled out Clint's spare bag from the closet before making himself a cup of coffee. Briefly, he wondered if he should text Steve and ask him whether he needed anything, but something told him Steve was the kind of guy that was always ready and well-prepared. A proper boy scout through and through. The few dates they'd been on so far – dinner and a movie, an afternoon walk in the park with a second cup of coffee in their hands, a medical follow-up to check Steve's hands and get a clean bill of health for work – had made clear a few things, one of which was that Steve was always fine and he never asked for much, which made Bucky's attempts in offering all the more amusing, but at times coming head to head with Steve's solitary routine. The medical follow-up had been the first time when they had butted heads – it probably wasn't going to be the last time.

Bucky checked for his keys. They were in his front pocket. His phone? In the other pocket. The wallet? Next to his keys. He checked the windows three times, then checked each appliance twice. Just to make sure that everything was unplugged, turned off or simply not going to cause any major concern. Just as he was about to do it for the third time, he stopped. He literally told himself to leave before he would get worse – because it could and it would if he lingered much in the apartment. Closed the door. Locked it twice. Checked three times.

He took a deep breath and stepped away from the door of his apartment and called up the lift. He stared at the metal doors, concentrating on taking deep breaths as he really didn’t want to do this again – go back to his apartment and restart the ritual. He had finally managed to keep this compulsion in check as much as he could, but it was still a work in progress and he really didn’t want to start all over again. When the elevator finally came and the doors opened, he got inside as if he had been chased by ghosts or something.

Bucky smirked bitterly to his reflection into the metallic doors. It hadn’t been that far from the truth. He had been surrounded by ghosts ever since he came back on American soil and recognized the magnitude of his loss, the fact that Daniels and Velásquez were never going to come back, that Morita had lost an arm, that he’d be plagued by nightmares in the years to come. Accepting help? Had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done in his life. He was still a work in progress.

On his way to the firehouse, Bucky stopped and grabbed coffee for Clint and Wanda (he didn't know who had the worst coffee addiction) and a few sandwiches, including one with ham and extra cheese for Steve (plus a lemon muffin because the guy was always in for something sweet). The bus ride was uneventful, giving Bucky ample time to think about the plans that he and Steve had made for the following afternoon. Steve had invited him to spend the night at his place, so Bucky ensured that his day off would coincide with it, ignoring Tamara's cheeky smile when she noticed his relief upon checking the rota and thus confirming that he was off.

When Bucky reached the firehouse, it only took a brief look to realize that the guys were having a light day at work. Sam, Clint, and Steve were lounging on lawn chairs in the corner flooded with the afternoon sun, talking loudly and laughing even louder.

“Bucky!” Clint exclaimed and stood up so abruptly that his chair crashed to the floor. “You came! And bearing gifts, no less.”

“Like I said I would.” Bucky rolled his eyes but gave Clint his spare bag immediately. “Hey, Sam. Hey, Steve.”

“Hey, man.” Sam stood up and shook hands with him, followed by Steve, whose lips curled into a pleasant smile. Bucky ignored the pleasant flutter inside his chest at seeing Steve in the tight black FDNY t-shirt that Steve wore with the confidence of a man that knew he looked good but didn't put much importance in it. There was a lack of self-awareness that Steve projected at times that made Bucky doubt that it came from a place of natural progression and more from a studied attempt at looking casual. Nonetheless, the man looked gorgeous all the more because it seemed so effortless.

“Hey, Buck,” he said softly and grabbing the back of Bucky's neck, he tugged him forward and pressed a light kiss to his lips to the hoots and hollers of the other guys. “What are you doing here?”

“This moron forgot his bag at home so he's asked me to bring the spare one that he keeps at mine for this type of situation,” Bucky answered, ignoring Clint's indignant _Hey_. He kissed Steve again on his lips, nothing urgent or too lustful. “Then I thought I might as well see my best guy.”

“I thought I was your best guy!” Clint intervened but Bucky pushed back at him.

“Shut up.” Bucky regretfully let go of Steve and opened the paper bag he still had in the other hand. “I brought you some extra coffee, Barton. Don't say I never did anything for you. There's a sandwich for you too, Sam, if you want.”

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it,” Sam answered and, ignoring Clint's antics, he grabbed a sandwich then went back to his lawn chair.

“And this is for you,” Bucky said as he gave Steve another small bag with a slight flush on his cheeks.

“Why does he get preferential treatment?” Clint pouted even as he managed to gulp half of his coffee in one go. When he made grabby hands for the other paper cup, Bucky slapped him on his hands.

“Don't you dare! That one is for Wanda. Besides, it's the vanilla blend that you don't like.”

“Fine.” Clint sauntered at the back, presumably going to give Wanda her coffee.

“I'm glad you're here,” Steve said softly. “And thank you for this.” Unhesitatingly, one of Steve's hands cupped Bucky's left cheek, his thumb trailing over Bucky's cheekbone. He must have had one of the dopiest smiles on his face but Bucky couldn't help but let himself sink to the depths of Steve's naked affection. “Can you stay long?”

“Nope.” Bucky slightly shook his head and let his hands, now unoccupied, curl gently on Steve's hips. “My shift starts in an hour. I came just to drop Clint's bag and quickly see you.”

“Are we still on for tomorrow evening?” Steve's voice dropped lower as his thumb pressed briefly against Bucky's lips. Lust, sharp and rich and strong, jolted through Bucky's body, making his fingers dig deeper into Steve's hips.

“Definitely.” They stared at each other for what felt like ages. At times, Bucky wondered whether this intense desire for Steve's company, this pressing lust and sharp craving for his hands on him, to be known by Steve, was returned. Whether Steve was going through the same process, this unbearable feeling of lust and affection pressing against his ribcage with the same rawness.

“Guys, keep it pg-13, please and thank you,” Sam interrupted them as he made a gagging sound. “Some of us are trying to eat here and your gross indecency is making my sandwich stick inside my throat.”

“Whatever, Wilson!” Bucky replied and flipped him off but let Steve kiss him briefly one more time before he let him go. “You should be thankful that I brought you a sandwich in the first place.”

“Yeah, true. But that doesn't mean I wanted a sandwich and a show where you and Steve make googly eyes at each other.”

“We don't make googly eyes at each other,” Steve said, slightly pouting. Bucky had to chuckle because seriously, it was utterly amusing to get a guy as serious as Steve to say _googly_ in the first place.

“Wanda says thank you and also, you're invited at her cookout next week.” Clint interrupted them as he made his way back outside. “I say, if you want to save your life, politely thank her but choose to run in the opposite direction.”

“That bad?”

“Worse actually,” Steve was the one to answer but all three of them winced in a terrible and common recollection that actually amused Bucky more than he was letting on.

“Remember the stew?” Clint shuddered.

“Or the thick broccoli soup?” Sam turned slightly pale. Steve looked like the simple memory of it might make him puke. “That was bad. Really bad.”

“Then why are you guys still going to her cookouts?”

“Well, someone has to encourage her.” Clint shrugged and grabbed a bite from his own sandwich. “Or we're glutton for punishment.”

“Both. Both are true.”

“Okay, good to know then. If I ever want to experience the pain of horrible cooking –”

“Terrible, horrible pain,” Clint emphasized while still chewing.

“Fine. If I ever want to experience _horrible terrible pain_ , then I'll have to check out one of Wanda's cookouts.” Bucky checked his watch and smiled sadly at Steve. “I've got to go if I want to make it on time and not have Tamara kick my ass.”

“You'd think you'd be the boss, you know, with you being the son of the owner and everything.”

“You'd think so, wouldn't you?” Bucky smiled warmly and kissed him softly again. “See you tomorrow?” he mumbled against Steve's lips, the warmth between the two of them tight and scalding.

“Definitely.” Steve nuzzled at Bucky's cheek. “Can't wait.”

“Aw, young love!” Bucky rolled his eyes at Clint's mocking tone but let go of Steve. He turned to his friend who signed quickly just for him, _Happiness is a good look on you, brother._

 _Shut up,_ Bucky signed and blushed slightly again. He cursed his fair complexion when Steve smiled knowingly. “See you later, moron.” He gave Clint a one-arm hug and clapped him on his back. “You owe me one.”

“My first born on a silver platter!”

“You're really disturbing, I hope you know that.” Bucky went to Sam and shook hands with him too.

“You know you love me, Buckaroo!”

“Yeah, like I haven't heard that one before.” Bucky kissed Steve quickly then waved at them and stepped out towards the bus station, the image of Steve's gentle smile accompanying him for the rest of the day.

***

When Bucky got out of the shower, Steve was in the bedroom with a cup of coffee. He was looking out on the window, drenched in the morning light, peaceful and big and golden. Buck’s heart stuttered inside his chest. He carefully stepped towards the man and let his clammy hands curl gently on Steve’s waist, resting his forehead on Steve’s shoulder. Steve hummed approvingly and kept the peaceful silence between the two of them as he came closer to Bucky. It was so quiet, as if all of Bucky’s thoughts have been scattered to the wind.

He turned his head a little and kissed Steve’s nape and took a deep breath. He wrapped himself around Steve tighter, arms looping around his waist, Bucky’s chest flush to Steve’s back. Steve put the coffee cup on the windowsill and his arms rested now on Bucky’s. The intimacy of it was overwhelming, making his heart race more. Bucky tightened his arms around the other man as he hid his face. Steve was so warm and big and safe and Bucky just wanted to stay like that forever.

He made a small sound of protest when Steve turned swiftly around but then they were hugging again and Bucky’s eyes closed in pleasure when Steve started to kiss him softly on his forehead, his eyes, his nose, his cheeks. Small kisses, fluttering kisses like butterflies, like a cooling breeze during a hot summer. Bucky sighed in delight as he widened his stance and pressed closer still to the other man.

The gentle kiss at the end came as no surprise. Bucky was discovering the delights of being thoroughly kissed, of Steve gently nipping and soothing his lips, of Steve’s tongue chasing Bucky’s taste, of Steve making each kiss a new discovery onto itself.

They kissed and kissed and kissed and not once did they let go.

***

It was three in the morning by the time he made it home. It was true that New York was one of those cities that never slept, but his part of the New York was like an obnoxious giant in slumber at that time of the night – overly tired and yet still aware. His small apartment, just a few blocks away from _Sláinte_ , was inside a narrow brownstone that once must have belonged to a single family, but now had been turned into a complex and thoroughly negotiated set of apartments (four in number), the space of which (or the lack of) was at times laughable. At least his apartment was better positioned than Shannon's, his neighbor in 1C, whom he once helped with a leaky faucet. His bedroom could actually contain a double-sized bed and an armchair, with a small closet on the side. His living room could barely keep up with his bookshelves but at least he still had a bit of sun in the afternoon and while his kitchen would restrict the access to only two adults at the same time, it was welcoming enough with its blue titles and dark countertops.

Bucky locked the door behind him and turned on the lamp in his small hall, which cast a warm orange light in the small space like a surreal path of light into being followed in the living room. He checked the door three times to make sure that it was properly locked, then finally shed his leather jacket like old skin, hanging it on a hanger before making his way to the bedroom. He turned on the lamp on the side of the bed and pulled on the curtains, blocking the city lights. It was easy from here to follow a certain routine. He took a shower, changed into his sleeping clothes, drank a glass of water and checked that everything was locked or put away one more time before he went to bed. He texted Steve a few times but the man was either busy or sleeping and Bucky couldn't begrudge either so he put the phone away and tried to get some sleep. Having done this for what felt like forever helped him.

The phantom sound of a shout, whether his or imagined he couldn't say, startled him wide awake. His heart raced, his t-shirt drenched in sweat. Bucky groaned and pressed his left hand hard against the place where he imagined that his heart might be. He couldn't remember the dream but it must have been bad. He took a deep breath and counted to seven then did this backwards and started all over again until at last his heart slowed down and he was unable to hear his blood pulsing inside his ears.

The force of the explosion had come like an invisible hammer, leaving him breathless and on fire. The crushing force had pushed into his ribs like a tight first, breaking five of them, one in immediate danger of puncturing his lung. There was a white stab of immeasurable pain in his shoulder – later, they had told him that it was actually his clavicle, shattered and sticking at an angle that made the medics sick to their stomachs.

Worst of all though, _he was on fire_. In fact, half of him was on fire, the whole sky above him red and unrelenting. He could smell the sickly smell of burnt flesh and could taste the bitter blood inside his mouth. Yet, all he could do was blink blankly at the sky above, the shock of the explosion annihilating any sense of human preservation whatsoever. Bucky didn’t remember much about it afterwards, but he still had that bloody imprint of the sky inside his brain like a terrible scar that never healed. Apparently, it was Dum Dum that had extinguished the fire on his side, which had been greedy and chewed into his uniform and flesh. Dizzy and bleeding, he had failed to realize the utter destruction that the IED had caused.

For weeks afterwards as they kept a close eye for infections, as he got one in the end, as he had to be put in a medical induced coma for two days, as he woke up again, as he slept and as he breathed painfully and awkwardly, that ringing in his right ear never quite faded away, that warning shout just before the deflagration still present in all his most horrid dreams. And the smell – oh, the smell had permeated all his clothes and his nostrils for all eternity.

Bucky groaned and pushed the heels of his palms against his eyes. He could already feel it. It was going to be a terrible week.

***

“Bucky!” Bucky gave the customer the requested beer then turned towards Tamara, who grinned like the Cheshire Cat. “Your boyfriend is here.” And she pointed somewhere next to the memorabilia wall where the firefighters were already seated at a table. Sam and Clint seemed to be having a deep conversation while Steve raised his hand and waved once at Bucky. Steve had changed into a green sweatshirt and his hair was combed nicely. He looked well put together for a person that had just finished a twenty-four shift. Bucky waved back then turned his attention to Tamara, who was already chuckling, quite amused by Bucky's whole grumpy demeanor.

“Oh, shut up!”

“I didn't say anything.”

“I think you said plenty, lady.” Bucky scowled at her, which of course only made her laugh harder, to the delight of a few patrons around her.

“This is the best thing that happened to me in a while,” she said after a while, pretending to wipe her tears.

“It's really sad when the best thing that happened to you in a while is actually my love life,” Bucky groused like the old man people accused him to be at times and started preparing a cocktail for one of the orders that Tamara brought from the tables.

“I know, but look at the bright side. I get to mock you every time you blush or grin just at the thought of Steve.”

“I don't do that!” The outrage of his words was kind of lost in the noisy sea of the other people.

“You kind of do, son,” Mr. Nichols butted in, instead of minding his own business. He was one of the oldest customers that _Sláinte_ had. He'd always show up around eight o'clock in the evening with his bowler hat and his crinkled smile and had the same order. His almond eyes would watch the world move around him but he'd rarely interact with anyone else. He'd ignore the other patrons but he'd share a story or two with Bucky, stories from his old days in the army, when the mood stroke him.

“I thought that you were on my side, Mr. Nichols,” Bucky said and shook his head in mock disappointment as he finished the cocktail and grabbed a bottle of wine from the fridge, preparing the order for Tamara to take away.

“I never said I was on anyone's side, son, but it's not my fault you're turning into a mumbling and blushing idiot when that kid is around.”

“Wow, mocked by my own friends in my father's goddamn bar.” Bucky slammed the other glass on Tamara's serving platter. “See if I will make sure that your seat isn't taken by other patrons ever again.”

“There's plenty of smart folks around here to know not to touch my seat.”

“Hey, Buck.” Steve's warm voice interrupted them and ignoring Mr. Nichols' knowing look, Bucky turned towards his boyfriend and smiled softly. The firefighter leaned in towards the bar, his eyes crinkling.

“Hey, Steve.”

“The boys said it's my turn to pay for a round. So I'll have two Budds and a Corona, please.”

“Sure thing.” Bucky moved quickly and brought up the requested beers. “Are you going to wait for me tonight?”

“Don't mind if I do,” Steve answered with a smirk and this time Bucky didn't miss the way Mr. Nichols raised a sarcastic eyebrow at him as if he was silently calling him a _dumbass_ , which probably wasn't far from the truth. Tamara chuckled again but took the drinks and went to serve them. Steve winked at Bucky then grabbed the beers and went back to his friends.

The night passed quickly after that in a swirl of orders and music and laughter. Bucky was busy at the bar and he got to speak with Steve only during his smoke breaks, but it made him glad to feel his presence, to know he was there. In fact, Steve stayed long after they closed, even though Bucky had insisted that he should go home or at least take the keys to Bucky's apartment and wait for him there. Steve refused but helped him and the others finish the clean-up. Though they had closed for once at midnight and had Steve's help as well, they still finished everything well past one in the morning. It didn't help that Bucky had to check to make sure that everything was properly switched off, locked away and ready for the new day.

It was as good a time as ever to show Steve the bar and his father's office, the staff room and the storage. The piece of history not only of his own family but of their neighborhood as well. And Steve pinned him against the wall, just up the stairs to his father's office, and kissed him, hungry and possessive and raw, leaving him breathless and greedy for more.

They walked home hand in hand, not talking much, taking in the city at night. Their shoulders touched now and then, making them smile softly at each other, pressing one against the other, and for once the trip back to Bucky's apartment ended quicker than expected.

They didn't turn on the lights as they made their way through his apartment. Steve kept his hands curled tight on Bucky's hips as he guided him inside the bedroom, his breath hot at the back of Bucky's neck. When they closed the door behind them, Steve briefly stepped away in order to turn on the lamp on Bucky's nightstand, plunging the room in the soft dim light. His blue eyes burnt into Bucky as he stood his ground, swallowing thickly, desire pooling deep and raw inside his belly. He was already half-hard just by the way Steve looked at him, naked desire making his eyes scorching.

He came around the bed again and pushed the duvet away then slowly made his way to Bucky like a predator about to pounce its prey. His big hands curled around Bucky's shoulders and pulled him tightly against his body, then he slowly leaned forward and kissed the curve of Bucky's lips, deliberately sweet and languid. Each inch of his lips kissed and nipped as if Steve never tired of tasting Bucky, as if he'd been addicted to him all along. Bucky's own hands came up Steve's back and grabbed fistfuls of his hoodie. The unyielding gentleness of their kisses made the heat between them grow only more scorching. When Steve finally opened his mouth with his tongue, exploring even more, Bucky's hand unclenched and slowly progressed under Steve's hoodie and undershirt only to press tight against the smooth skin of his back.

Steve moaned softly as another jolt of pleasure made him kiss Bucky's jaw, scrapping his teeth against his pulse point and Bucky couldn't; he had to be the one to kiss now, he had to be the one to map the gentle slope of Steve's clavicle, the lush corner of his lips as he pushed hard against Steve's body, their groins touching, making them both moan in pleasure. Steve's soft noises were driving Bucky insane with pleasure, with the need of hearing them again and again.

Steve ran his fingers through Bucky's hair and grabbed tight before slightly pulling to the degree that he wanted and kissed him again, leaving Bucky painfully hard and breathless. He couldn’t remember how they'd shed their clothes and ended up naked on top of the cool sheets. But there they were now, naked and breathless, Steve on top of him, around him, _in him_ , pleasure coursing through his veins hot and thick like molasses, leaving him needy for more.

Steve's thrusts were hard and relentless, his hands everywhere, their bodies flushed, so close. Another thrust hit that perfect spot inside of him like an electric shot of pure pleasure running down his spine and he could feel his own fingers convulse on Steve's shoulders. His entire world seemed reduced to the tight space between them, to the way Steve's shoulders loomed above him, hard and protective. The intimacy of it all was more arousing than anything else, the way Steve couldn't take his eyes off him, the way Bucky's fingers had mapped the gentle slope of Steve's nose, the delicious plushness of his lips, the hard curve of his shoulders in which he had dug his fingers greedy and hard.

Each thrust brought them closer to the edge and Bucky closed his eyes as he held on.

“Look at me,” Steve rasped, pleasure pulling at the end of each word. “Please, look at me, sweetheart.” He bit gently at Bucky's ear and nuzzled his jaw, another deep thrust making Bucky moan. He was being held as if he was something precious, as if he was worth worshipping, and he had to open his eyes if only to drown in the deep blue of Steve's eyes, in the naked desire and affection mirroring his own. The thump of his heart inside his chest only got louder but he couldn't look away from Steve, from the union of their bodies, from the way he was pressed against that warm, sweaty body and only wishing to be closer. Closer still. He swallowed thickly and let himself be held and kissed for what it felt like hours.

***

“I honestly don’t understand why you never take anything for your colds when you should,” his sister scolded him as she gave him a cup of hot peppermint tea with one hand, while with the other she shoved a box of tissues in his lap. Bucky grunted morosely but took a sip of the hot tea and moaned in misery. The cold hadn't seemed so bad at the beginning. In the beginning, there was only a mild sore throat and the occasional headache. But then, after sucking on enough lemon drops to last him a life time and taking his weight in cold tablets, it became obvious that he wasn’t improving. On the contrary, the cold only got worse.

So of course when Becca called him that afternoon to check up on him, he could barely muster a _hello_ and answer her increasingly alarmed questions. So there he was now, sitting in his armchair while his sister puttered around his bedroom, making him feel like a two-year-old altogether. Bucky sipped from his tea again and watched Becca as she threw away some of the used tissues and empty wrappers from his nightstand in a bag while her nose twitched at the stale smell inside the room. Naturally, she had to turn and open the window, letting fresh air flooding the room.

“I didn’t think it was that bad,” Bucky managed to croak. “I _didn’t_ ,” he emphasized when it was clear that she didn’t believe one word of what he was saying. She scowled at him as she began to change the sheets.

“If I had enough money, I’d hire you a nanny. Honestly, Bucky.” She rolled her eyes at him when he managed to give her the most pathetic puppy dog eyes into existence. “Yeah, that never worked with me, moron, so don’t start now. You know that this oblivious act doesn’t suit you one bit.”

“It suits me just fine. But seriously, I did take something for the cold. But nothing worked.” He miserably blew his nose then threw the tissue in the garbage bag that Becca brought with her.

“I know, I know.” Becca sighed as she pulled out fresh sheets from the closet. “What did Dad say?”

“Not to show my face to _Sláinte_ until I can talk without coughing my lungs out.”

“Ew, you’re disgusting!”

“How am I disgusting if it was Dad that said it?” The peppermint tea sweetened with honey alleviated his sore throat. It was quite soothing. Clearly, Becca was onto something. He pushed his hair behind his ear and winced when he caught the sweaty scent of it, the only clue that he had sweated out the fever. At least that was gone.

“How about mom?” A well-known smirk bloomed on her lips as she fitted the corners of the sheet. Damn, he forgot how much of a pain in the ass his sister could be when she wanted to be. Even when she was playing as his guardian angel.

“There’s enough soup in the fridge to feed a small army,” Bucky answered at last and winced, remembering his mom’s worried face when she visited him yesterday afternoon. She gave him Tylenol for the fever and caressed his face time and time again, her blue eyes full to the brim with worry. Ever since he had been hurt, she’d been incredibly protective of him and the slightest health scare had been treated with the utmost care and worry, enough to drown ten blocks in Brooklyn if it ever came to it.

“Of course.” Becca hummed as she switched her attention to the pillows and fluffed them. “And your boyfriend?” She casually asked, but it was enough for Bucky to almost spill the remainder of his tea on his lap. He caught the cup at the last moment but flinched when his hand was scalded by some of the hot brew.

“Jesus, are you trying to kill me?” He seethed then scowled at her for good measure, but Becca had always been indifferent to Bucky’s manners and even more to his scowling so she just arranged the duvet on the bed and looked at him completely unimpressed. “I’m going to kill Barton.”

“It wasn’t Clint, relax.” Becca swung around and looked out on the open window, inhaling deeply and letting herself bathed in the late afternoon sun. Bucky could feel his lips twitch into a tender smile. It was good to see Becca so relaxed in his presence, the sense of estrangement between the two of them (that had been there when he had been finally discharged) having finally dissipated. His sister turned back to him and said with a playful smile, “Dad said something so it wasn’t difficult to realize that he was talking about Steve.”

“Does everyone know about this? Do all of you talk about this behind my back?” he asked as something unpleasant churned inside of him. The thought of having this new relationship the talk of his friends and family wasn't as comforting as one might expect in his situation. While he was aware that such discussions would never reach Steve's ears, it was important for Bucky to maintain some sort of intimacy, all the more since there was a certain fragility to what he and Steve had.

“No.” She came around the bed and sat on it. She was still wearing her office attire – she was working as a personal assistant to some lawyer while attending some extra classes for her grad school – but she didn't seem to care as she pulled a knee to her chest and watched Bucky, her eyes kind and understanding. He lowered his gaze and didn’t dare to take his eyes away from his tea. “It’s just me and dad and Barton and mom.”

“Mom?” Bucky’s eyes widened in surprise as he glanced back at his sister. “I’m surprized, she didn’t mention anything to me.”

“She chose not to.” Becca shrugged and sighed as she rested her chin on her knee. “She’s scared that it might put you off.”

“I hate when everyone treats me with gloves like I’m some sort of raving lunatic that needs to be constantly supervised.”

“Now who’s the melodramatic one?” Becca rolled her eyes at him and adjusted the cuffs of her shirt with an air of boredom that edged on sarcasm. “The reason why she didn’t mention anything is because you always get your panties in a twist about the smallest observation so she thought that as long as you talked to dad about it, it was going to be all right.”

“I hate it when you all psychoanalyze me,” he mumbled into his cup as he took a long sip from it.

“You, dear brother of mine, invite psychoanalysis. Besides, I only asked about your boyfriend. You could have simply told me he’s at work or just say he's fine, not make such a drama about it.”

“I didn’t make a drama about it.”

“Yes, you did. As always.” She nudged him with her socked toe and she grinned when he scowled at her. “Now, are you going to tell me where Steve is?”

“He’s at work,” he answered dutifully and ignored Becca’s triumphant smile. “He's running over his finish time so he'll pass by here later. Spend the night here.”

“How sweet!”

“Becca, I’m warning you.”

“What? Can’t I say how sweet and adorable my brother is?” Her nose twitched. “At least if he’d manage to get a shower before his boyfriend arrived. Trust me, moron, the way you smell right now would send away even wild dogs.”

“I was planning to!” Bucky exclaimed then coughed for what felt like ages when his indignation stirred his sore throat a bit too much. “Also, what the hell? Wild dogs?”

“Sure you were.” She purposely studied her nails, ignoring his sputtering. “And, yes, wild dogs. Remember what Nana Barnes always says?”

“Don't rush into things when you can dive head first?”

“Yeah, that never made sense. But not that. It was something about packs of wild dogs and ransom.”

“I honestly can't remember.” Bucky rubbed at his forehead. “She has a lot of sayings that don't make sense.”

“Yeah, that she does.”

“What are you doing here anyway? Weren’t you supposed to go to Boston for that training course?”

“While I’m impressed that you remembered anything at all about my training course, I’m afraid that was last weekend.” Becca watched him totally unimpressed as she stood up again and grabbed a pair of clean sweats and a dark blue t-shirt from his closet. “Now please go and have a shower. You really stink, Buckeye.”

“I hate it when you call me that.”

“I know.” She grinned and dramatically paused before she added, “That’s why I do it in the first place. Now chop-chop, Bucky, unless you want me to stick around and wait till your boyfriend shows up, letting him in on some well-guarded secrets of the Barnes family.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” The dread made his voice sound hoarser still. There was that incident with the reindeer and the hat and the snow that they’d promised never to speak of again but apparently, his sister didn’t get the memo.

“Oh, but I would. Also, I’m not on this earth to be your maid, big bro. So if you could please just hurry up and clean yourself? I've got better things to do than staying here and playing your nurse.”

“Yeah, like what? Mooning at that Proctor guy?”

“Do not annoy me, big bro! I do know where you work.” She narrowed her eyes at him. Their shade of blue had always been warmer, more pleasant than Bucky’s. “I could swing by one night and mention here and there a certain incident in Basics.”

“And I could mention 2008 Halloween,” he replied then immediately started to cough hard enough to make him feel like he might sprain something, a sharp twinge in between his ribs sending his entire ribcage on fire. It hurt even to breathe. He hoped that it was just a side-effect of the cough and not a sign of chest infection and the need for antibiotics.

“Let’s agree that we have enough blackmail material to last us a life time.” Becca came closer and rubbed his shoulders gently. Bucky closed his eyes in silent pleasure at the sudden relief. “Go and have a shower and I’ll warm up some food for you.”

“Thanks, Becca,” he mumbled, languid and warm. He really didn't want to get up.

“Yeah, yeah.”

He smiled at her and caught her in a light embrace, ignoring her squeak. He kissed the crown of her head then let her go. He gave her the cup and took instead the clean clothes. On his way to the bathroom, he grabbed a fresh pair of boxers as well. He closed the door behind him and turned on the water from the shower before slowly taking his clothes off. Ignoring the brief flash of marred skin into his bathroom mirror, he entered into the stall, the hot water doing wanders to his weary bones. It felt like everything hurt. He washed his hair then his body with quick and perfunctory moves, used to the hard ridges of his body, the marred skin and scars. He’d been used to them but never quite so much as since Steve came into his life.

Taking it slow with Steve was a curse and a benediction at the same time, but the certitude of being in for the long haul was already deeply embedded inside of him. It was in the way Steve grinned when Bucky took him to the Met, the way they took pictures on the wide stairs as they made their way in, the way Steve smiled and pressed against his body: sure, possessive, hot. Bucky had held on to Steve’s hand, unbearably lost to the blue gaze of that man, to the way he spoke with small gestures, the delicious curve of his mouth, the inextricable way his eyes always crinkled at Bucky.

Bucky turned off the water and grabbed a blue fluffy towel from the towel rack, unwilling to get out of the steaming stall. He thought of the way they laughed at the back of the cinema as they watched the latest Keanu Reeves movie, both of them confessing their long-standing crush for the guy. Steve had admitted that he even had Reeves' autograph. The way Steve had spent half of that night kissing Bucky raw, how his lips had tasted Bucky’s in hungry and scorching kisses, so lost to the sensations that both of them came untouched. For two people that had issues in their own way, they were pretty good together.

Bucky smiled in the quietness of the bathroom and pulled his boxers on, then his t-shirt and sweats. He pushed his hair behind his ears and watched his distorted image in the fogged mirror. He noticed the way Steve watched him sometimes – like Bucky might disappear, like what they had was too fragile (and maybe it was), too precious (and maybe it was that too), like he couldn't name what connected him to Bucky and yet he knew they had to fight for it. Relationships meant work. Mom had been adamant for both Bucky and Becca to learn this lesson. Bucky opened the door of the bathroom and let the steam float away.

Their pact in the kitchen was still holding up.

He ate soup with Becca and dutifully took his medicine then let his sister leave because she indeed had a date with Michael – apparently things were getting serious for her as well. He wrapped himself in a soft blanket with another cup of hot tea as he watched the first episode of a show on Netflix, one that his sister had been adamant he should watch.

He must have fallen asleep because what felt only a few moments later, the buzzer rang, startling him awake. He rubbed off the sleep from his eyes and went to answer.

“Steve,” Bucky mumbled as soon as he opened the door to the other man, and there must have been enough patheticness in his voice because Steve’s eyes could literally melt all the frost in the world with how warm they were. He dropped his bag on the floor and his arms wrapped securely around Bucky and pulled him into a tight embrace, his body a hard and warm line against Bucky's.

“Still no better?” Steve softly asked, pressing a gentle kiss on Bucky's forehead and rubbing his bearded cheek against Bucky's.

“I think it’s worse,” Bucky mumbled as he hid his flushed face inside the crook of Steve’s neck. Yeah, he was pretty pathetic but he couldn’t care less, especially when Steve’s embrace only tightened around him, big hands supporting him.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Steve pressed a tender kiss on his jaw and let him cling on. “But for the record, you smell really nice.”

“I had a shower. Becca came earlier and was mean to me.”

“Aw, I’m sorry I missed her.”

“Trust me, she wanted to meet you too but she had a date with Michael, the boy wonder.”

“Do I detect some big brother protectiveness?”

“I promise you it’s more than big brother protectiveness.” Bucky hated his stuffed nose because he couldn't smell Steve's scent. It was driving him crazy. “I should be doing my threatening about now, but instead I just sniffle around, sneeze, and cough.”

“And hug me.”

“And hug you.” Bucky rubbed his bearded cheek on the sensitive skin of Steve’s throat. “I missed you,” he admitted in a soft whisper, all his walls taken down by the cold and the unimaginable quantity of Tylenol that he had taken. He would have been even more embarrassed, had it not been for the way Steve made him look up and pressed a tender kiss on his chapped lips.

“I missed you too.” Another soft kiss and then gentle hands rubbing gently at his back. “I plan on staying for the night if you'll have me.”

“I'm miserable company.”

“Yeah, like I'm a ball of sunshine all the time.”

“Steve, you're not a ball of sunshine most of the times.”

“Lies!” They chuckled but Bucky didn't let go.

“You might get the cold as well.”

“I don't care.”

“You'll care when you realize how disgusting I am.”

“I sincerely doubt you're disgusting.” Steve pressed another kiss on Bucky's cheek. It was enough to convince him to let him go. “I'll grab a shower quickly before I can start cuddling you.”

“Fine by me.” Bucky smiled. “Want something to eat? Mom made enough chicken soup to feed my former platoon twice.”

“Yeah, I'd like some chicken soup.”

Steve grabbed his bag and disappeared in the bedroom as Bucky made his way to his small kitchen. By any standards, his kitchen was small enough to barely let two people move relatively freely without bumping too much into one another. He heated up some chicken soup for himself as well and added into mix some buttery toast. He made himself another cup of peppermint tea with honey and lemon then sat at the table. He wasn't hungry but he wanted to keep Steve company and maybe forget that he hadn't eaten much throughout the day either.

Bucky turned on the radio and checked his phone. Clint had sent him a photo of Lucky munching happily on his pizza and a simple text of _Hope you'll feel better soon_ underneath. Then a whole wall of text from his boys on their common _whatsup_ group, which he gladly ignored because he really wasn't in the mood to read a whole novel.

Steve returned to the kitchen with a soft look on his face. He was wearing a pair of Bucky's sweats and a soft-looking green t-shirt that hung loosely on his frame. There was a lovely flush lingering on his cheeks and his hair was in disarray. Something terribly affectionate clenched at Bucky's chest – it should have been illegal for a man to look so adorable as he just got out of the shower.

“You're so good to me,” Steve smiled when he saw that everything was ready for him. He nuzzled Bucky then pressed a soft kiss on his nape. “Thank you.” He took the other seat at the table and dug into his soup.

“You're welcome, though I promise it wasn't so hard heating up some soup that I haven't even cooked.” Bucky smiled ruefully and munched on a piece of toast washing it down with a bit of tea.

“Yeah, but I should be the one to prepare the food. You've got a cold.”

“I promise that after this I will let you pamper me any way you want.”

“Sounds fine by me.” Steve hid a yawn behind his hand. “How was your day?”

“Boring. I coughed, I sneezed, I remembered how much I hate having a cold.” He sipped a bit of tea. “I was worriedly observed by my mom and nagged by my sister. So you know, the usual.”

“I'm sure.” Steve chuckled. “You know you're lucky you have them.”

“I know. I'm just being grumpy because of the cold.”

“You're my grumpy so that's fine.”

“Have we already touched that level of cheesiness?”

“I'm afraid we did.” Steve tugged him closer and kissed his forehead. “You don't seem to have a fever,” he mumbled softly and Bucky tucked his face in the crook of his neck again.

“Hmm, how was your shift?”

“Quiet. We didn't have many calls and the ones that we did were mostly routine ones.”

“I'm glad.”

“Me too, buddy.” Steve pushed the plate away with one hand while with the other pulled Bucky slightly closer. “What do you say if we wash the dishes in the morning and go rest now? I don't feel like cleaning right now and I don't think you're too keen on them either.”

“Yeah, let's cuddle.” Bucky rasped as he felt more than he heard Steve's chuckle. They stood up and cleared the table but left the dishes in the sink and switched off the light. Steve went to the bedroom to make the bed ready for them while Bucky followed his usual ritual of checking and double checking the appliances and the door then plunging everything into darkness.

In the bedroom, Steve was already tucked away on his side of the bed. On Bucky's side, on his nightstand, there were his medicine and his cup of tea together with his phone. He quickly got on the bed as well and tucked himself into Steve's side – there was that sense of being safe again as Steve's arm wrapped tightly around his waist and tugged him closer. Steve's hand twisted slightly in the hair at the back of Bucky's neck, holding him close and still.

“How can I feel so tired when I literally napped all day?” he mumbled in the crook of Steve's neck, his left hand resting softly above Steve's heart.

“It's the cold. It makes you more tired than usual.” It was still early to go to sleep so they didn't switch off the lamp on Bucky's side. Steve's other hand rubbed gentle circles on Bucky's lower back and he hummed in pleasure. “See what smoking in the frigid air wearing just a sweaty shirt gets you?”

“Oh, not you too.” Bucky groaned then sniffled. He could feel Steve's chuckle under his cheek. “I swear everyone tried to give me a reason as to why I got this cold. However, in all the scenarios that I was offered, apparently, I'm always to blame.”

“Of course you are.” Steve's little hum dropped like honey. “But I'm glad I'm here with you.”

“Even though I'm disgusting and I've got the sniffles?”

“Even so.” Steve pressed another kiss to the crown of his head. “You can take a nap if you want. I promise I'm not going anywhere.”

“It'd be kind of hard for you since I'm all over you like a clingy octopus.”

“Well, I don't mind.”

Silence descended on them again. It was pleasant to feel comfortable under its veil. Bucky sighed a little. He appreciated those tiny moments of silence between Steve and him, all the more when they were doing menial jobs through their apartments, when they had a morning together and they'd fill in the crossword in the newspaper, or when they'd be out and about, taking a walk or drinking coffee.

Furthermore, none of them fell in the temptation to fill up those moments. There was no hurry in their gentle gestures, in the way they'd fill each other spaces, in the way they were sweet on each other, shameless in their small gestures and admittances of care. The sense of security with Steve was all the more enhanced by the fact that they'd negotiated the terms from the very beginning – they'd been honest enough to admit their failings and their willingness to try for more. There was never that sense of insecurity – of whether they were exclusive (they were), of whether it was too soon to call each other boyfriends (not anymore), of the way they pressed against each other still famished, still craving ( _always_ ).

“Tell me a story about your mother,” Bucky asked abruptly, the effect of the question immediately visible – under him, Steve's body was coiled tight. His hand in Bucky's hair twisted tightly while the other convulsed against his skin.

“Why about my mom?” Steve asked back, the sudden roughness of his voice tinged with longing almost breaking Bucky's heart.

“Because you never talk about her and I want to know her better.”

“I don't think –”

“From the pictures I've seen at your apartment, she seemed like a really lovely lady.” Bucky's thumb moved in soothing circles on Steve's chest. “She had beautiful kind eyes just like you and she was slender. Her eyes crinkled just like yours and she seemed just as determined as you. She meant the world to you, Steve. So, if you're comfortable with it, I'd like to hear a story about her. Please.”

The silence stretched between them unfathomable, like a big yawn impossible to fill. And yet, Bucky didn't feel the need to do so. He just waited patiently for Steve to decide, his hands frozen on Bucky's body, but still anchoring. Still kind.

“Have I ever told you,” Steve began at long last, his voice tight with an undefined emotion, pressing at the edges of each word, “about that time when I kicked Rocco Alfonsi's butt and mom made his dad almost cry when both of them were called to school?”

“No, I don't think you did.”

“Well, here's the thing.” Steve's arms briefly tightened around him. “First of all, what you need to know is that Rocco Alfonsi was a big jerk and nobody liked him but everyone feared him. During freshman year, I was maybe one hundred pounds soaking wet and the guy had at least another one hundred over me.”

“Were you really that skinny?”

“I promise, Buck, I was worse. Remind me to show you the pictures next time.” Steve's amusement made Bucky smile. “I never had any issues with the guy but then one day, he had to open his big mouth and say something stupid about Tara. We were in the cafeteria when he marches straight to her and –”

Steve's story about Rocco and Giuseppe Alfonsi and the way his mom made both of them feel really sorry for how they behaved up to that point turned into another about how his mom reacted the first time she caught Steve having sex with another guy, having failed to mention to his mom that his interests were mostly in the same sex. It was like the dam constructed around the memories of his life had suddenly been broken, a devastating flood of memories and laughter drowning the small world they'd created for themselves. In between bouts of coughs and making new cups of tea, Bucky hung on to Steve's every word, delighted to see this new side of him, the barrier for once utterly broken.

“I swear I've never been so embarrassed in my life,” Steve admitted in between chuckles. “And I thought I'd been so subtle about it too. Mom had to sit me down and give me the safe sex talk, although I was completely mortified and groaned the whole time she kept me at the kitchen table, determined to not let me go easy.”

“She'd seen your naked ass. I would've been mortified too.”

“Easy for you to say, Buck.” Steve's fingers glided across Bucky's ribs, slightly ticklish. “You didn't get the flowers and the bees talk from your mom when you were in your late teens.”

“Nope. On the other hand, when I came out to my parents, my dad immediately called uncle Ben, my dad's youngest brother, who also happens to be gay, to give me the safe sex talk.” Bucky could blush even now just at the slight mention of it. He hadn't been able to look into uncle Ben's eyes for a couple of years after that, though his uncle had been most supportive and gentle in the way he had broached the subject. “What's worse is that afterwards, Dad had a talk with uncle Ben too, then with his partner, Terence. Then, like that wasn't enough, he started to buy me condoms and lube and the likes.”

“That's sweet. Also, kind of –” Steve struggled with finding the right word.

“Overbearing? Well-meant but also slightly ridiculous?”

“Yeah. I guess so.” Steve hummed and kissed Bucky's head. “What about the guys in the army? Did they have any problems with you being gay? Or it was the old _don't ask, don't tell_ throughout all your time overseas?”

“Most of them didn't know.” Bucky bit his bottom lip and burrowed further into Steve's warm body. “I was a pretty private guy anyway. Though I got some ribbing in the beginning, the guys in my squadron were pretty laid back so I was left alone most of the time. But Daniels and Morita knew. Dugan too.”

“Daniels was one of your men that died?” Steve asked carefully. Bucky scrunched his eyes closed, not sure whether this was something that he wanted to talk about with Steve.

“Yeah, he and Velásquez. They were –” Bucky swallowed hard, his throat suddenly painfully tight. “Um, they were in front. They got the worst of the blast.” His fingers convulsed on Steve's chest. “I don't remember much, to be honest. I mean I remember the ringing in my ears, but I –”

“You don't have to talk about it, Buck. Not if it makes you uncomfortable.” Steve's gentle words soothed Bucky. But he pushed forwards because it felt like it was important to at least mention a few things to Steve, to make him understand. He didn't think he'd be able to bring up the subject again. Not on his own volition anyway. He'd barely been able to speak about it with his therapist and even now, he was still struggling with the sense of guilt. He'd been their sergeant, goddamn it, and he'd been unable to protect them.

“I remember the sky stained red, Dum Dum's frantic face above me. The smell of burning. Someone screaming in the background.” Bucky's voice was scrapped raw, hoarse and painfully tight. “Later on, I'd found out that it had been Morita, whose arm had been torn off. He has a cool prosthetic now, courtesy of Stark Industries.”

“Do you still keep in touch?”

“Yeah, we do. He lives in Queens and – I know, I know,” Bucky added, amusement bubbling at the edge of his voice, “I keep telling him he should move to Brooklyn but he doesn't want to listen.”

“His loss.” Steve turned his face and kissed him gently on the cheek. “Thank you for telling me.”

“I wanted you to know why I –” Bucky stammered out, his words wobbly at the edges. “I get nightmares sometimes. Check things a lot more than it's necessary, but I guess you saw that. I – I'm doing much better now, but I still need to see a therapist every couple of weeks. I still attend some VA meetings.” Whatever courage and strength he had left came to an end, but it was still important to add, “If you think this is too much for you to deal with or, like, I don't know –”

“ _Don't_.” Steve crushed the word between his lips hard. “Don't even think about that.”

“You say that now but you won't say the same when we get to spend the 4th of July together and I can't go outside because everything is too loud, too noisy.” Bucky sighed and opened his eyes when Steve's hand cupped his stubbled cheek. He felt as if he had been flayed open, all his insides left asunder for Steve to see. “I just don't want you to think that I'm cured or done with whatever happened then. I might never get to fully recover and there are days when I'm barely functional, when a few cigarettes aren't enough.”

“Then we will deal with it. Together.” Steve's thumb rubbed a circle on his cheekbone, anchoring and tender. “Just tell me what you need me to do. Just tell me what you're comfortable with. I'm more than willing to make further adjustments in my life. Besides, I never liked the crowdedness on the 4th of July. We can go somewhere quiet. Or huddle up in the apartment. We'll figure out.”

“Thank you.” The words rushed out of his mouth, raspy and soft.

“There's really no need to thank me, Buck. This is important to you and therefore, it's important to me.”

Steve's kiss was like a balm, reassuring and anchoring. In the small reality of their lives in that bed, in the press of their bodies, and the tender touches, Bucky's nightmares and anxiety seemed to dissolve, at least for a time, powerless in the face of Steve's loving support.

Bucky sighed and nuzzled Steve's neck again. Deciding to ease the tense air between them, he spoke about Daniels and how he tempted him with the first cigarette, laughing his ass off when Bucky had coughed and spluttered, his eyes watering the first time he inhaled the smoke. About that time when a cow in South Indiana made both him and Becca scream in terror – it was late and dark and mom had almost fallen asleep at the wheel.

Bucky couldn't remember when he fell asleep on Steve, arms secured on each other. They'd talked way past midnight in hushed voices, the lamp turned off at last. But in the morning, he did remember the way he woke up groggy and dizzy in the wee hours of the morning only to feel Steve curled tightly around him, like a human shield protecting Bucky from the rest of the world. He smiled and went back to sleep, ignoring the tightness in his throat. It must have been the cold anyway.

***

Bucky looked at the unanswered messages on his phone, something hard and bitter clenching at his chest. He squeezed the phone in his hand so hard it actually groaned in protest and it took several breaths for him to calm down enough to loosen the white-knuckled grip on it. It'd been a week of phone calls going straight to voicemail, texts unanswered or ignored because Bucky could see that Steve had read them but had chosen to either ignore them or simply delete them.

 _Ever since that night_. Bucky looked up at the dreary sky as he took another drag of his half-smoked cigarette only to find that that it was extinguished. He shoved the phone inside his back pocket and lit up his cigarette again, trying to clear his mind, to swallow past the shame that suddenly pooled inside his stomach, hot and bitter. Had he pushed Steve too hard that night? Had they been too close?

He hated second-guessing himself. He hated asking himself questions that he couldn't answer because the one person that could have saved him from all of this rumination had decided all of a sudden to be a fucking coward and ignore him. How much time should he let pass before he'd do something about it? Before he'd consider that he waited enough? Because he couldn't go to Steve. That was certain – the guy would only feel all the more cornered and that would precipitate things between them. If there was anything to precipitate at all.

Bucky took another drag of his cigarette and pulled out the phone again. He stared at the bright screen, at his unanswered texts, his thumb hoovering over the keypad, trying to gather his thoughts, to make sense of what he wanted to write. Curse him? Beg him? A long drag from his cigarette and then _You promised_. That was all he had to say – they had promised something to each other and he had thought that in spite of how hard things might become between them, they'd both at least had the guts to say something.

Who was the fucking coward that had invented this ghosting shit? The inability to face another person like a mature adult and say you didn't want to be involved anymore? Bucky bit his bottom lip hard because he was so angry with Steve, so angry at being discarded like this – without even that minimum of respect of asking for space, a request that Bucky wouldn't have been pleased with, but he would have respected wholeheartedly.

“You're upset.” Bucky couldn't even look at Clint as he took a long drag from his cigarette. His best friend had shown up that evening accompanied only by Wanda, without any word on Sam or Steve. A white hot pulse of rage had pierced Bucky's heart and it took him twenty minutes on his dad's couch to calm down enough not to bite someone's head off.

“You think?”

“Steve doesn't seem okay either.”

“That doesn't make me feel better.” Bucky's harsh reply sounded all the crueler in the space between the two of them. He wondered whether this was how Steve had treated Jack as well. He wondered whether Jack had been trying, much more than Steve had given him credit for, only to hit that wall with which Steve loved to surround himself.

“Care to tell me what's going on?” Clint asked and Bucky finally glanced at him. His best friend was leaning against the wall, putting himself between Bucky and the other patrons outside, though everyone was minding their fucking business. He was dressed in a dark sweatshirt and his purple hearing aids were barely visible through the disarray of his brown hair. But his eyes were kind and worried and something horrible twisted inside of Bucky.

“Nope.” Bucky stubbed the rest of his cigarette with enough viciousness to make its remains scatter into the slight breeze. He pinched the bridge of his nose then sighed. “Sorry, pal, I just don't feel like talking. Not about this.”

“I know but I think you should anyway.” Clint shrugged when Bucky threw him a cutting glare. “I'm your friend, Bucky. Don't make me sic Dum Dum on you.”

“Yeah, like that will work.”

“It will if I make him sit on your ass until you want to talk.”

“Don't.” Bucky signed, letting the silence descend upon them. “Don't joke about this. I can't. Not about this.”

“I know,” Clint signed back, his gestures clear and eloquent. “But something happened between you and Steve and I care about the two of you enough to want to help. If I can.”

“Then tell him to have the guts to pick up his goddamn phone,” Bucky said viciously, even though he had signed each word as well. He pushed the hair behind his ears and sighed. “Look, this is something that only Steve can sort out and he doesn't seem inclined to do so at the moment. What I don't need right now is making a post-mortem already. So I don't want to talk about it because I'm angry and upset and I might say things that I don't actually believe.”

“Even if Steve hurt you,” Clint filled in and his kind eyes narrowed.

“Yes.”

“But you know I'm here for you. If you need me.”

“I know.” Bucky was sure that his intended reassuring smile was more of a grimace, but Clint must have chosen to let it slide because he clapped him gently on the shoulder.

“Just let me know if I need to kick his ass.”

“No ass will be kicked, Barton.” Bucky swallowed past the thickness in his throat. He hadn't thought about the repercussions of their relationship for his friends, for the way Clint and Steve had been close too and how now he might have to choose sides. God, why couldn't anything be simple?

The rest of his shift passed in a blur of smoked cigarettes and preparing drinks, in sharp orders and ignoring the tight ache in his chest. When his shift ended, he wandered the streets as his slow steps brought him closer to home, having hoped that enough distance walked would put a dent into that terrible rumination that he'd been doing. He walked and walked because he wanted to at least get tired enough to be able to sleep without thinking that Steve should be on the other side of the bed, that Steve should answer his texts or phone calls to at least tell him to piss off. Bucky bit his lip as he crossed his street, drawing nearer to his building. Only for his heart to do a somersault inside his chest when he noticed that someone was waiting for him.

Steve was sitting on the steps to the entrance of his building. He was dressed in that soft-looking hoodie again and a pair of jeans and he looked gorgeous and beautiful and God, but it was painful to have a look at this man without touching him. Bucky didn't understand how he managed to live for this long without his hands mapping the gentle slope of Steve's back, his lips tasting that delicious curve, without feeling his beard burn all over his skin. He balled his hands in tightly clenched fists, his nails leaving half-moon marks inside his palms. He could do this.

Steve must have heard his steps because he looked up and immediately froze at the sight of Bucky, his fingers intertwined in his lap giving him a despondent air which Bucky resented. He hadn't been the one to cause their rift.

“Well, when it comes to dramatic gestures, you surely know how to make them, Steve,” Bucky said and there was enough viciousness poisoning his words that Steve flinched. He stood up nonetheless to face Bucky. “What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk.” Steve's voice sounded rough and wound tight.

“That's really funny coming from you, you know that, right?”

“Bucky, I –”

“I thought I told you to at least have the guts to say it to my face if you didn't want to continue this,” Bucky sneered. “I'm not good at playing all these mind games that modern dating seems to entail nowadays, Steve. I don't need this bullshit of not answering phone calls and pretending my texts don't exist.”

“I came here to apologize and give an explanation, Buck.” Steve raised his hands in a placating gesture that somehow annoyed Bucky all the more for he huffed and climbed up the last set of stairs so he could open the main door to his building. “Bucky, please.”

“You know,” Bucky said, pressing against each word hard and unrelenting, “to anyone else this gesture of yours might seem romantic and it would beg forgiveness straight away. I kind of resent it all the more because I know it should have been completely pointless if you could have only kept your end of the bargain.”

“If you could just let me explain...”

“That you got cold feet, that you were scared by how close we were?” Bucky looked at him over his shoulder and immediately realized that it was a mistake. The devastated look on Steve's face sent cold daggers inside of him. “I know all of that, thank you.” The silence stretched between them like a cold night in the desert, relentless and painfully hard. It was devastating.

“Can I still come in and say it?” Steve asked at last in a tiny voice that made Bucky's chest burn like fire. “Can I still come in and apologize and say what you know already but that I'm here? _I'm here_ and I'm not going anywhere this time?”

Bucky turned his back to Steve and took a deep shuddering breath. He pressed the handle and opened the door and took one step in. He now had the confirmation – Steve had been scared and had chosen the coward's way out – and he could say that he had closure and that he could move on. He was pretty good at lying to himself. He'd be able to make it in the long run. But what they had during those months could be the potential for something greater and he wondered whether he had it in him to move away from that. That had been the question all along, hadn't been?

“Come in,” he said and heard the answering steps following him. He didn't dare to look behind him as he made his way to his apartment, unlocking the door and leaving it open for Steve, who closed it with a soft click then made sure it was locked properly the way he knew that Bucky preferred. Bucky swallowed hard and took his jacket off before turning on the lights in the living room.

“Before we do this,” Steve said gently, “I want to tell you that it was never about you. Not in the way you'd think because you're pretty much perfect for me, Buck. You must know that.” Bucky swung around and took in Steve and his regretful eyes.

“Is this supposed to make me feel better? Because it really doesn't. I don't think anyone in the history of ever was glad to hear the words _you're too good for me, you're too perfect, you're way out of my league_ as a reason to break up.”

“God, Buck, I'm not trying to break up with you!” Steve took a few steps further inside the living room. “It was never about this.”

“Then what was that all about, Steve?” Bucky ran his fingers through his hair, ignoring the way Steve seemed to hunch into himself.

“I was just scared,” his voice rasped. “I was really scared that I might fuck this up, the way I fucked up the other relationships before.”

“Then you come talk to me, Steve! _You talk to me_. You tell me how you feel, you ask me for space, you ask for what you need. You don't ignore me. You sure as hell don't make me think that something bad happened at work and that I need to call Clint only to find out that you were okay, just didn't feel like answering your goddamn phone. Do you know how that made me feel?”

“I'm sorry.”

“You're sorry? Well, good to hear it, pal. I'm really glad to hear that you're sorry.” His ugly sneer made Bucky flush with shame and a moment later he crashed on the couch, clasping his head with his hands, unable to look at Steve anymore. He had been hurt by Steve's silence because never before had silence been an issue between the two of them. They had filled it with loving gestures and comfort; it had not stretched between them like a terrible void, bottomless and pitiless.

Steve came closer to Bucky and knelt in front of him, his calloused hands gently take Bucky's in his, making him look at him. They were warm and tender and his thumbs pressed inside Bucky's palms in small circles.

“I needed to see you,” Steve admitted, biting his bottom lip. “That's all I could think of this past week. I needed to see you.” His voice cracked at last. “I needed to touch you. I just – I needed to be with you in any way you wanted me and I couldn't. I just couldn't. I felt like this wasn't going to last. Like it was too good to be true.”

“You should have come and talked to me.”

“I know, I know. But we also know that between the two of us, I was always going to be the coward.” Steve smiled ruefully, an ugly sort of thing, all jagged and broken pieces. “I was already planning on seeing you tomorrow morning and grovel, make you forgive me. But then you sent me that last text and my whole chest was on fire.” Steve brought Bucky's hands to his mouth and kissed each knuckle. “And all I could think of was meeting you in a couple of years, in a small coffee shop, and you telling me that you found your happiness next to someone else. That you were going to look at me like I was a stranger. Like I didn't know the taste of your skin, the small sighs you made when I kissed you. Like I didn't learn the shape of your body, like you didn't hold my hand long into the night when I told you about my mom.”

“I'm not Jack, Steve,” Bucky said, releasing a shuddering breath.

“No, you're not Jack.” Steve brought their hands to his forehead and pressed them tight. “But with you, it would have been so much worse. Because I would have wanted to fight for you, Buck. I would have wanted to make an effort. The loss of you would have left me permanently damaged. Your text brought me to my knees. Buck –” Steve looked like someone had carved into him, leaving him flayed and exposed. He released his hands and gently tugged Bucky into a tight embrace, hiding his face into the crook of Bucky's next. “Buck, please, don't give up on me yet. Give me another chance. I'll fight as hard as I can. Just hang in there, please? Just hang in there.”

“It's not my role to heal you, Steve. It's not my place to save you,” Bucky replied but his arms came around Steve holding on to him for dear life.

“I know. And you won't have to because I'll save myself. But I want to do it with you by my side. I want to meet you halfway, as honest and open as I can. If you let me.” Steve looked up and cupped Bucky's cheek, his thumb pressing against his cheekbone and anchoring him. There was such an open and appraising warmth inside his eyes that Bucky shuddered, sending his heart aflutter.

Bucky turned his head and kissed the inside of Steve's palm, the taste of him familiar, the scent of him overpowering. He could say goodbye, he could say no. He looked back at Steve, at his beautiful blue eyes, at the way the muscle in his jaw was working without actually getting anything past his lips because the moment of talking was over. He took in the soft and desperate look of him, his slumped shoulders, his warm hand around Bucky's waist. And just like every other time in his life, Bucky Barnes took a leap of faith.

“'Til the end of the line?” he asked and it was ridiculous how Steve's eyes brightened, how his delicious lips curled softly into the most tender of smiles.

“'Til the end of the line.” The words sounded like a solemn oath, powerful enough to dispel any reservations that he might have had.

Bucky crashed his lips against Steve with hunger and despair, their noses bumping uncomfortably. It was by far the worst kiss they had had, but Steve moaned and pressed tighter against him and took as good as he gave. There was a knife-edge to the passion with which they abandoned each other in their kisses; there was a slight taint of despair in the way they dived into each other's mouths and nipped and tugged each other close. Closer still. Unbearably close.

***

The late morning brought gloomy weather and soft kisses under the duvet. Gentle caresses and hushed moans. Cold toes and coffee drank in bed. The world outside moved forward at its unstoppable and indifferent speed. Inside, their life was just beginning.

**The End**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really think I have an issue with writing short pieces as I always surpass the initial goal that I set myself at the beginning of each year's challenge. It must be the wonderful art that I'm always lucky to claim for this Big Bang. Therefore, I'm greatly indebted to thatsmysecret for giving me the opportunity to write a story based on her audio prompt. It was a pleasure to give a twist to her prompt and writing this story. She also created the wonderful cover for the story. I thank her for her incredible generosity and for encouraging me. <3 You can listen to her audio prompt again and shower her with all the love that she deserves [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19039804).
> 
> I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to fancyh, who lent me a hand when I needed the most. She's been kind with my inconsistencies, edited my terrible mistakes, and gave priceless input, thus improving my story much more than I'd hoped. She's been generous with both her time and her kind comments. The remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone. 
> 
> And if you made it this far, kind reader, as always, thank you for reading. :)


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